Shaping Britain
by Saturn-Jupiter
Summary: A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern, covering the best bits and the bad bits of the Nation's long and often bloody history. Chp23: The Ambulance Associations
1. 17th January 2005

**UPDATE: Corrected after a review left by nyada pointed out that 'brasser' is not only Irish slang, therefore wouldn't really be used by anyone in Northern Ireland, but also that it isn't commonly used in Ireland anymore, making it probably a fair bit dated. As such, it has been removed. Thank you, nyada, for pointing this out!**

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_How Scotland may have treated England after the results of a new survey._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Scots stand proud in accent polls**

**17****th**** January 2005**

BANG!

The door produced a deafening bang once it had collided with the wall into which it had been thrown. The culprit of this abusive handling of the door was, rather predictably, France. There were only a handful of nations that had the nerve to be so brash and rude and three of them were already in the room at the time. France, being France, had not noticed this. Instead, France closed his eyes, held his hands to his mouth and sang out his traditional greeting:

"Oh, ~ _Bretagnnnnne*_"

CRASH!

"Ye could at least try an' say it! It sounds better when ye say it my way!"

"Why the HELL are you holding a SAUCEPAN!"

France had chosen a poor moment to visit his younger brother over the _Manche*_, but he wasn't aware that it was a poor moment, it just so happened to be this way when he arrived. It wasn't an irregular occurrence, to enter a room and see Britain fighting his siblings, but France would be lying if he said he wasn't slightly concerned about the fact that Scotland had somehow taken control of a _casserole*_. The only thing that concerned France more than Scotland's possession of a _casserole _was the fact that the other two, usually fairly boisterous countries, were hiding behind the _canapé*_.

CRASH!

"Now say it in Scottish!"

France snickered slightly as he watched the elder of the two sparring countries chase the youngest around the kitchen brandishing the aforementioned weapon, and apparently threatening to hit poor Britain on the head with it. Though highly _amusé*_ by the situation, France decided to join the two hiding nations behind the _canapé_ in order to find out exactly what had happened to cause a fight between the two countries, yet again. At least, that's the reason France _gave_ for wanting to join the two nations behind the _canapé. _

"What has happened, _mes petits_?" queried France, each word of his question seeming to become caught and purr in his throat before being released, "Why are they fighting?"

"New survey's come out. 'Pparently, the Scottish are really proud of their accents," replied Northern Ireland, voice so loaded with sarcasm so as to be tangible, "I would never 'av guessed."

"_Bon_," nodded France, aware of Scotland's virtually infamous pride, "But how does this explain why they are fighting?"

"Oh, when do they ever stop?" replied Wales, speaking very clear English but with a notable accent entirely separate and distinctive from that of dear _Bretagne_'s, "They're always fightin', it's a wonder we ever get anything done with those two!"

"SAY IT ALREADY YE SASSENACH*** **POOF!"

France smiled. He found all of the accents of Britain greatly amusing, even if a couple of them caused him a great deal of _difficulté*. _What he found even more amusing than this though, was that the previously all-powerful British Empire was being beaten around the head by his older brother with a _casserole_. France briefly observed that perhaps he ought to be recording this with something, just to show the rest of the world's nations what family life was actually like for Britain. That or he could just record it and use it as a form of blackmail later on.

CRASH!

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!"

Scotland visibly paused. The (now) three countries hiding behind the _canapé_ dared to peer their heads over the edge slowly. Whilst Britain was cowering in one corner of the kitchen, staring at the saucepan as though it were the most terrifying thing in the world, Scotland was standing in the centre of the kitchen. His left hand, still clutching said saucepan, lay across his abdomen so that his right elbow could teeter on it. Holding his chin thoughtfully and gazing off into the distance, Scotland pondered his little brother's question as though it were somewhat more significant than it actually was.

France noted, because he was France, that Scotland towered powerfully over his little _frère_. There was at least a head in height difference between the two nations, though Britain's cowering made it difficult to estimate precisely what number of _centimètres_ separated the two brothers. Britain seemed somewhat shorter and feebler looking when compared to Scotland, who seemed to be physically stronger, with an apparently greater number of toned muscles. However, whether this was just due to his naturally more aggressive personality (and therefore propensity to get himself into fights) was a contentious area.

The two were evidently related, sharing the same sparkling green eyes. Gazing from a distance, France noticed that Scotland's eyes were a bit of a darker green, resembling more the foggy, mysterious and more fantastical green of the Highlands than the bright green pastures more commonly associated with the fields of England. Even their hair wasn't all that dissimilar: Scotland's hair took the same uncontrollable, boring, predictable shape. However, unlike Britain's ashen blonde, Scotland's mane of hair was a distinctive red, seeming to burn like a deep brick red flame rather than the more common bright orange-like red.

"Why am Ah hittin' ye 'til ye speak with a Scottish accent?" repeated Scotland, tapping his chin thoughtfully, before an insanely cruel smile broke out on his face and he declared loudly (and slightly hysterically), "Coz it's fun!"

"FUN!" cried out Britain in what was probably a combination of shock, horror and pure mortification, "You're a sick bastard, Scotland."

"That wasnae a Scottish accent, was it?" smirked Scotland, thwacking the gleaming metal saucepan against his hand, apparently immune to the pain which the cooking utensil wrought, "Ye mus' like bein' burst in the head with a saucepan."

France, and his two neutral friends, probably should have done something to aid their ally, but they feared for their own safety, because Scotland was bloody terrifying at the best of times. Seriously, a man that chooses to wear a kilt (essentially a _jupe*_, let's face it) without anything underneath in winter, is clearly a bit loose in the head. It was the 21st century and the man was still wearing tartan kilts, though he had apparently taken to wearing underwear underneath them (usually whenever France was around). Scotland was, arguably, the hardest, scariest country in the world and France wasn't going to go against him for _Bretagne_'s sake.

An awkward silence fell between the three countries hiding behind the _canapé_ as they watched Britain fall to Scotland at the hands of the devious cooking utensil. Britain, stupidly, had backed himself into a corner, and Scotland was not renowned for his mercy against the English (who in turn were not well known for theirs against the Scottish). They observed the scene in vague fascination as Britain, somehow, managed to squirm his way out of the corner and ran for his life away from his crueller, older brother.

"Alrigh' then, Scotland's beatin' up England again," sighed Wales, before ignoring (to the best of his ability) the situation and interrogating France, "What're you doing 'ere anyway, broga*?"

"I was just here to see my _petit frère_," purred France, silkily (as always), "And it was a plus to see you as well."

"I'm sure it wus," sniggered Northern Ireland, often referred to as 'North' by his brothers because his name was otherwise a lengthy thing to say, "Why ye really 'ere?"

"Why," replied France, feigning injury, "Can I not just visit my dear _Bretagne_?"

"Don' mess around," frowned Wales, known, despite his protestations, for being quite amicable towards England, though (going by the standards of his other brothers) he was really just behaving normally towards the suffering sibling, "What's going on?"

"I am not plotting anything… dangerous against your precious _Bretagne_, if that was what you were thinking," responded France, having genuinely just popped over to check up on his younger brother, "I just wanted to see how he was."

"Really?" asked Wales, finding the statement difficult to believe, though unable to question further as the battle suddenly escalated, "Oh what have they-"

"ARGH!"

THWACK!

Thump.

"Uh," came the normally very self-assured Scottish accent, "We might av a slight problem."

"'Ow slight?" queried Northern Ireland, still from behind the relatively questionable safety of the _canapé. _

"His head is bleedin'," informed Scotland, having placed the saucepan on the work surface before slowly walking away from the kitchen, "Ah think mebbe we should just leave."

Having regained enough _confiance* _to leave their hiding place behind the _canapé, _France, North and Wales approached Scotland, of whom they remained dubious. They approached the kitchen and peered over the kitchen counter that parted it from the front room. On the floor, limp as a kitten but pretty much spread-eagle across the floor, lay Britain. The trio, minus Scotland (naturally), sighed. All four of them silently acknowledged that the Englishman never managed to look quite so peaceful and chilled when conscious.

"We can't leave 'im like that," sighed Wales, "He'll only complain about the mess."

Wales made his way over to a large cabinet, which all of the four nations present knew very well. It was the first aid cabinet, though it felt like a drastic understatement to refer to it as a cabinet. It was at least _deux mètres _tall and _un mètre _wide, and there were seven or so shelves of equipment for treating everything from cardiac arrest to a blister to a collapsed lung. Returning with alcohol wipes, a tetanus shot and bandages, Wales entered the kitchen to treat his unconscious brother.

The other three nations had followed Wales into the kitchen but only North opted to actually help. Scotland was leaning, supposedly nonchalantly, against the work surface, trying not to look guilty or a little bit concerned, whilst France was standing behind the two helping nations with a wicked smile on his face. North was holding _petite Bretagne'_s body up whilst Wales set about cleaning and bandaging the bloody patch which indicated where the saucepan had done its worst. It was sweet, in a twisted way, to see how the siblings supported the one they had just mangled.

"Ye can leave if ye want to," sighed Scotland, watching France warily though his tone didn't obviously indicate suspicion of the Frenchman, "He won't be wakin' up fur a while."

"Did you really hit him that hard?" asked France.

"Pff, should be used to it by now," grumped Scotland, frowning slightly as he watched France's face light up like a perverted schoolboy, "English bastard."

"Why don't you call him Britain?" asked France, having only just noticed that the three brothers had never ever referred to him by the name used by every other nation in the world (to France's knowledge), "I thought that was his name."

"S'complicated," began North, turning around to look at France, though immediately being disturbed by France's proximity to where his arse had been seconds earlier, "Ter us 'e is, an' always 'as been, England, so we call 'im England."

"He's the one who holds us all together," explained Wales, wrapping the bandage around even as faint moans begin to whisper from the Englishman's throat, "So we let 'im call 'imself Britain with you lot, though technically, he's the United Kingdom, but he's always been England to us."

"Or Albion* if we feel like pissin' 'im off." added Scotland, not entirely helpfully.

It was one short minute later that the white bandage had been successfully secured in place, much of it thanks to Wales's well-practised first aid skills. _Bretagne _was left sleeping on the floor of the kitchen with the white bandage forming a sort of halo around his head. The four conscious nations, no longer concerned for his welfare, decided to go down to the pub and get pissed, mainly because none of them wanted to be there when the Englishman finally woke up.

_The poor attempts at conveying the countries' respective accents were aided by '.uk' and no insult is intended. Additionally, I am basing the physical appearance of the characters of Scotland, Wales and on a DeviantArt picture created by Annaciel, which I would advise you go and see._

_According to surveys, the Scottish are very proud of their accents (rightfully so); it's something like 73% of them are proud of their accents. Whilst the Scottish don't openly attack people with English accents or force us to try and use theirs, I thought it would make an amusing little story. _

_*Bretagne: Britain, I could have used Royaume-Uni (which is UK and would have been much more politically correct) but being as all of the nations in the English Dub refer to him as Britain, I thought it would be the most appropriate (though inaccurate)_

_*Manche: the English Channel_

_*casserole: saucepan _

_*canapé: the French word for sofa, though the word 'sofa' does exist as a French noun_

_*amusé: amused_

_*Sassenach: a friendly term of abuse used by Scots to describe the English, according to Wikipedia it's still used though I've never been called it_

_*difficulté: difficulty_

_*jupe: skirt_

_*broga: according to Google Translate (which I hate using) it means 'frog', if you are Welsh-speaking and know this is wrong, please let me know; as a linguist I know how annoying it can be to see people butcher languages with Google_

_*confiance: confidence _

*****_Albion: an uncommon way of referring to England, it's not really used outside of fantasy works and football nowadays (West Bromwich Albion like to boast about the fact that Albion is in their club's name)_


	2. 16th November 2010

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_How Britain may have reacted to the news of Prince William's engagement._

**Please review to let me know what you think and to let me know if there is any particular historical (or modern) event you would like me to cover.**

_British terms that may not be understood by non-Brits are explained at the end._

**Royal wedding: Prince William to marry Kate Middleton**

**16****th**** November 2010**

"Oh," began Britain, "Good for them. It's about time really."

Britain wasn't really surprised by the news. After all, the couple had been seeing each other for a long time and had clearly waited a while to publically announce the news. Due to his close ties to the Royal Family, Britain had long been aware of whisperings of such an engagement but the first he properly heard of it was in a press conference. Whilst it would be wrong to say that he hadn't been expecting the news, it would be an even greater lie to assume that he had not been, at least a little, caught off guard by the announcement.

Prince William, second in the line of succession, was engaged to be married to Kate Middleton, who, through some bizarre quirk, would become known as Catherine once wed to the Prince. At the conference, Kate was wearing the very same engagement ring worn by the Prince's mother, the much-loved Princess Diana. The sentiment was certainly a sweet one: the Prince wished his mother to be present at the wedding, even if only in spirit. The news was greeted with a range of responses and even Britain himself felt a mixture of anticipation, apathy and a distinct lack of surprise.

The anticipation struck immediately. A Royal Wedding of such an important member of the Royal Family would certainly warrant a Bank Holiday, and they were always good. There had been many silent rumblings, usually quickly silenced by moderates, about what use or purpose the Royal Family was serving. They now had their answer. The Royal Family was a fantastic excuse to have days off for no (real) good reason. God Bless the Royal Family and the wonderful Bank Holidays they provide.

Apathy, certainly, was the greatest and most heart-felt of emotions pertaining to the news. Prince William was getting married? Okay, cool. When questioned further, people would normally just agree that they didn't really care. As for the lack of surprise, that was particularly noticeable. There was certainly a little surprise at the apparent suddenness at which the announcement had been made but as many people had remarked, it was really 'about bloody time' the couple got married.

"So, what do you think?"

_Bollocks! _panicked Britain mentally, _He's stopped talking?_

"You _were _listening, weren't you, _England_?"

His current bosses, of which there were two (technically three), may have been problematic and confusing for Britain, were the younger of his two bosses not such an incorrigible pushover. It was the older of the two who had been giving Britain some lecture about the Royal Wedding which he was supposed to be listening to but didn't really want to. He was sure that somewhere the words 'street party' and 'red tape' had been mentioned but he didn't really care. He found that his bosses invoked very little emotion in the British people beyond complete apathy or a keen sense of deep betrayal.

"I'm sorry, Prime Minister," replied Britain, "I didn't quite catch all of that."

"You ought to listen to me," declared the prime minister proudly, "What I was saying is that I'm going to tell local government to stop being such spoilsports and to cut red tape so that more people can have street parties. Well? What do you think?"

"I'm thinking, that I don't really like any of my neighbours, certainly wouldn't want to have a party with them," began Britain, whose list for not wanting a street party vastly outweighed what few advantages he managed to scrape together, "And that if I want to go shopping on the one day I get off, I won't be able to get my car out of the road."

"So you _don't _want to have a street party to celebrate the wedding?" asked the prime minister, his voice indicating that the very concept was a strange and alien one.

"Not really, no."

"But… but you had one for the coronation!" stuttered the incumbent prime minister, his voice loaded full of surprise, shock and just a little bit of horror.

This was true. Britain could not deny this. He had had street parties on many different occasions. He'd had parties for coronations, jubilees, royal weddings and he even had a party after the Allies had kicked Germany's arse and won the war. Now, however, he found that though he undoubtedly had vague interest in the wedding, the idea of a street party didn't appeal to him in the slightest. Even the idea that it would be made easier to do so refused to motivate him towards warming to the idea. Why though? Why was he so apathetic on this occasion?

Well, contrary to what his boss seemed to think, Britain had changed; admittedly, the change was so slight as to be nearly unnoticeable, but it was there nonetheless. Even without red tape, street parties were unappealing at best. Virtually every residential area had roads chock full of cars that would likely need to be free to move about at all times, particularly on a Bank Holiday. Additionally, (though his boss seemed to have forgotten this) many roads were key routes for the emergency services or were so dogged by speed bumps as to make a street party a practical impossibility.

Aside from the red tape which could not be removed as it was the dreaded Health and Safety red tape, Britain's final observation as to the lack of interest in street parties lay in English behaviour. It ought to be well known that a lot of English people (the Scottish and Welsh, and even Northern Irish do not seem to suffer the same affliction) seem to be ever so slightly socially inept. It is awkward to start a conversation except when certain conditions arise, and it is then assumed that the conversation will cease entirely.

Conversations with neighbours are often an awkward greeting of 'hello' and may progress onto more in depth areas of conversation if the two neighbours are fairly well acquainted. With a very close neighbour, an Englishman may feel secure enough to speak of how his children (if he has any) are progressing through school, though this will often be filled with derogatory statements at the child's expense. Only very _very _close neighbours will ever be invited inside for a cup of tea or something similar. Thus is demonstrated the real reason why the British do not want street parties: they could not bear the social awkwardness that such an event would incur. (It is important to note that the other reasons provided are simply brilliant excuses, covering up the real reason).

"Yeah, okay, er," Britain, finally realising that he hadn't actually replied to his boss yet, decided to fob him off instead, "I'll think about it."

His boss frowned. This boss, David Cameron, was of the Conservative party, one with which Britain was well acquainted. Britain had rather mixed feelings towards his new prime minister. He regarded the PM as a bit of a toff*****: the prime minister had had the very best that the British education system had to offer (having attended the very-not-public public school***** Eton College and Oxford University). Despite this assumption, and a very strong degree of scepticism involving Cameron's true motivations, Britain believed to a large extent that the harsh cuts he was facing were entirely for 'his own good'.

"If you're going to have one," whispered his second boss, "Would you invite me over?"

"No."

"Oh," frowned the often invisible deputy prime minister, "Okay."

Britain did not like Nick Clegg. He used to. In fact, he rather thought that Nick Clegg's third party would stand a pretty good chance of making a breakthrough in 2010, but (unsurprisingly) the youth vote was busy and left it to the last minute. When the result came out as a Hung Parliament, Britain rather expected that the Liberal Democrats would be friends with Labour, as the two were so ideologically similar. When the Lib Dems***** teamed up with the Tories***** and then kowtowed to the bigger party's every wish, Britain quickly grew to despise Nick Clegg. The deputy prime minister had betrayed Britain's trust and such a betrayal would not go unnoticed.

"Have a good think about it," ordered David Cameron, "Ok?"

"Sure."

Britain was very glad once they'd left his house. He'd be even more glad when they finally left for good, particularly as the PM was probably just going off to fly to another land and publically embarrass the nation in front of another country. It was a skill that David Cameron possessed that would be wholesomely impressive if it wasn't so insanely embarrassing. Britain could only hope that Cameron wouldn't say anything before the World Meeting tomorrow. Britain was having enough problems trying to sort out a deal with France_*_, without having to cope with the consequences of Cameron's vocal mishaps.

_I found that, despite it being some of the best news we'd heard that year, the vast majority of us weren't really all that bothered by the news. None of us were really all that surprised either: they had to get engaged at some point, really. It was only really the royalists who were overjoyed about the news. Though, I should cover my own back and say that these are still very generalistic sweeping statements and may not apply to all Brits._

_* toff: derogatory British term used to describe the aristocracy, upper-class people or really insufferably posh people_

_* public school: is used synonymously with private schools, whereas schools run by the state are always referred to as state schools_

_* Lib Dems: abbreviated form of the Liberal Democrats (a central but left-leaning party)_

_* Tories: meant as a derogatory term when utilised by Labour (previously socialist, more central party nowadays) supporters though also recognised as an acceptable abbreviation of the Conservatives (right-wing party with the occasional very right-wing nutcase)_

_* this refers to an agreement between French and British Armed Services to work together and share certain things, such as air carriers and stuff_


	3. 3rd September 1939

**Being as the last chapter was so short, I've uploaded this one faster than I'd planned. Again, if there is any particular event you want me to cover, please let me know. It would also be nice to have some reviews, even if just one word, just to know what you think. Thank you.**

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_How England and his siblings may have reacted to the beginning of World War Two._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**WAR**

**3****rd**** September 1939**

_10:49am_

England paced the room anxiously. He was probably more on edge than his prime minister, but he didn't really care all that much at the time. His siblings were elsewhere, doing other things. They were probably concerned, worried even, but they didn't dare let it show if they were. Even then, there was little evidence to suggest that their concern was for anything beyond themselves and their people. After all, if Britain decided to declare war, it wouldn't just be England's citizens being shot dead, would it?

"England," pleaded the prime minister, voice seeming to shiver and shake, "_Please._"

England paused. He looked to his right. Prime Minister Chamberlain was sat in his chair. There were bags beneath his eyes, from lack of sleep no doubt. In front of him was a telephone. The telephone was accompanied singularly by a ticking clock. The phone had not yet sounded once, though just outside the Cabinet Room phones were wailing widely and loudly, as though mourning their silent comrade sitting on the desk. England passed his eyes over the phone. He looked up to meet the prime minister's eyes. He looked at his shoes. He began to pace once more.

England didn't know what France was doing. He didn't really care, not at that very moment anyway. His government had issued an ultimatum. Germany must show willingness to withdraw his troops from Poland before eleven 'o' clock else they would be at war. They should have acted sooner. He and France had stood by and just let Germany take Czechoslovakia, an independent nation which Germany had no right to. Then Poland. They had promised Poland protection and what had they done so far? Delivered a scrap of paper. What good were words to Poland?

The House of Commons had been a mess last night. MPs were furious. Why had there been such a delay? Why had they only acted _this morning_? Arthur Greenwood, Labour's Deputy Leader, had accused Chamberlain of being indecisive whilst 'Britain and all that Britain stands for are in peril'. England had been in the Commons at the time. It was not rare to see the MPs verbally assaulting each other but quite a few people had been caught off guard by just what the MP had implied. Germany wouldn't start another war with Britain, surely?

"England," repeated the prime minister, "You must have realised that we are going to receive no word from them."

England paused mid-stride. His shoe hovered inches above the ground for a while. He stared at it. He had known since Germany invaded Poland. He had known since that moment that he wouldn't be wearing his comfortable shoes on the 4th of September. Tomorrow, he would be wearing boots. He would be wearing his army uniform and he would be at war, once again, with Germany. He stared blankly at it, unable to frown or glare, just resigned to the truth. He placed his shoe on the floor and, pulling a chair from under the desk, sat down.

"I know."

"I have tried to avoid this," stated Chamberlain, his voice almost a whisper, "I have struggled for peace, but I fear that this war is inevitable."

"I know."

England couldn't bring himself to say anything else. He wanted to thank his PM for trying, for trying so hard to avoid another war, but the truth was inescapable. England was not prepared for war. Germany had been rearming himself for years. England had done nothing. He hadn't been expecting another war. He was too busy worrying about other things, seemingly more important things, and Germany's fights were always so far away. England did not want another war and he was certainly not prepared for another war. Not after last time.

DING! DONG! DING! DONG!

Big Ben was unmistakable.

DING! DONG! DING! DONG!

Big Ben was callous.

DING! DONG! DING! DONG!

_11:00am_

England looked to his prime minister. A weak, sympathetic and knowing smile greeted him, but England couldn't find the strength to smile back. He couldn't even find the strength to look at his boss. Instead, instead, he chose to stare blankly at the phone on the table. Maybe it would still ring. Maybe Germany would be laughing on the other end, apologising for his uncharacteristic tardiness. Maybe England could avoid another war.

"I will announce this to the people," sighed Chamberlain, voice wavering breathlessly, "Will you stay?"

England looked up. Two sad green orbs stared blankly from beneath the faded ashen blonde hair. Chamberlain's eyes contained very much the same sadness. War was unavoidable. The Great War could not have been expected to stop that. Yes, the people needed to know. Chamberlain smiled weakly as his aides entered with the equipment necessary for the radio broadcast. England tried to frown as he made his way towards the door. No, he wouldn't stay for the announcement. Chamberlain nodded. England tried to smile as he left to tell his brothers.

_11:12am_

England turned the key in the lock. His eyes fell upon the key ring. Something pulled at the corner of his lips, he ignored it. His hand fell upon the ancient handle and pressed downwards on it. The door swung open passionately, as though trying to welcome its inhabitant home. The lifeless sap entered the building and gently closed the door behind him. He locked it and left the key in the lock, running on automatic. He turned around, eyes barely making the effort to look around. His three siblings were in the room. Had they been waiting for him?

"England?"

His eyes strove doggedly upwards, struggling against nothing. The two blank orbs stared, as sad as they were empty. England lied. He smiled. His face felt uncomfortable from the effort. He told them he was fine. They had no reason to worry. He was fine. Everything was fine. Everything would be fine. He turned away, moving as though being controlled by a puppeteer. England headed automatically towards the armchair, not caring why, though feeling that perhaps it would give him some comfort.

"TURN 'ROOND RIGH' NOW!"

The roar was deafening.

England didn't even jump. He turned around ever so slowly, watching as the colours and objects blurred inside his stinging eyes. Frowning slightly, England glanced around for his siblings. They had been standing just there, hadn't they? He couldn't see a blasted thing. It was too blurry. Why was it so blurry? Was this some prank they had played on him again? He blinked viciously and frowned more as a wet substance danced upon his lips. Raising a hand, his fingers traced the tiny trickles to their source. Oh. So that's why everything was blurry.

"WHIT THE HELL'S HAPPENED?"

Was it really so loud that it pushed him into a wall?

It can't have been.

"WHIT HAVE YE DONE NOW!"

England looked up, his eyes widened slightly from the sheer volume of the question. Scotland's face was barely two inches away from his own. He looked down. He was pinned up against the wall? Scotland's hands were clamped around his shoulders, crushing them beneath an iron grip, but England couldn't feel it. The bone and muscle beneath the clasp were shifting and twisting yet nothing registered in the Englishman's head. England looked into Scotland's eyes again, feeling the salty swords stab at his eyes once more.

"SCOT, GET AFF 'IM!"

Scotland was pulled off the Englishman who slumped to the floor, as he had only been kept standing by the incredible grip of the eldest brother. England looked up, vaguely observing Scotland turn around and snap at Northern Ireland, who had had the common decency but intense stupidity to pull him off England. England felt the prickles again and hid his face behind his left arm. A few short seconds later, he felt a delicate pressure against it, pulling it away from his face. The blurring nature of the attacks on his eyes rendered the person before him invisible.

"England?" whispered the voice, just intelligible above the furore in the background, "What's happened?"

"Radio."

"What about it?" asked the voice, whom England presumed to be Wales.

"Radio."

England felt Wales leave. England wiped his face with his sleeves. What was he playing at? He forced himself to his feet, thankful that the wall was there to provide such aid. Now able to see, having battled off the tiny daggers from their attack on his eyes, England observed Scotland and North. They were both staring at him, though their eyes soon turned away to Wales and the radio. England leant on the wall, already knowing what news the radio would bring.

_11:15am_

"_I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room of 10 Downing Street."_

"Chamberlain?" asked North.

"_This morning, the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note…"_

"No." grumbled Scotland.

"…_stating that unless we heard from them by eleven 'o' clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland…"_

"No." thundered Scotland.

"…_a state of war would exist between us."_

"NO!" roared Scotland.

England had never seen the red-head move so fast in his entire life. The Scot blurred he was so fast. The phrase 'never saw it coming' had never been more appropriate. A well-trained punch, loaded with more force and strength than was safe, struck England in the stomach. His mouth parted but no sound came out. His stomach contorted and pain shivered throughout his body as he sank to the floor, winded by the blow. Wales and North were silent, either too shocked or too sensible to react. England looked up.

"_I have to tell you now, that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently, this country is at war with Germany."_

All he saw was hatred before the tears won their battle and the dams broke.

_Britain did not want a war with Germany. Even after war had been declared, Britain did not see military action for months. Britain did not raise a finger to help Poland, aside from declaring war with Germany and for a long time, WWII was known as the 'phoney war'. Britain wasn't militarily prepared for war and neither did Britain want war. _


	4. 17th November 2010

**Again, please review to let me know what you think. Even if it's just 'good', I'd appreciate it. **

**Also, if there is any (particularly historical) event you want me to cover, please tell me. **

**I've got some more WWII coming up and one of the battles from the Wars of the Roses, but some extra direction would be appreciated. Thank you.**

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_How Britain may have reacted to the reactions of other countries to the news of Prince William's engagement._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Royal wedding: global reaction to Prince William and Kate Middleton's engagement**

**17****th**** November 2010**

"BRITAIN!" screamed the American, "DUDE! This is AWESOME news!"

_Seriously? _

This was _not _the reaction that Britain had been expecting.

"Dudeit'sawedding,," began America, voice rumbling at speeds faster than most of Italy's outrageously fast makes of car, "Ican'tbelievethey'regettingmarried. Imean,-"

Britain had been planning to wait in the conference room for the other nations to arrive. It was something that had previously been habit but had quickly turned into a necessity. With a strong feeling that his presence on the world stage was dwindling, Britain made sure that he was always the first person at the meetings, as the arriving nations would notice him first, and be reminded that he did exist and that he was better than all of them for being the first one there. However, his premature arrival at the meetings wasn't entirely the result of a cleverly concocted plan and was in fact entirely due to the fact that he had to leave his house earlier than most on the basis of Britain's famously poor transportation punctuality.

On this occasion, much to Britain's surprise and horror, all of the nations required for the meeting had already arrived and were waiting for him. This was a horrid and deeply wounding surprise for Britain, who began to immediately conclude that the world no longer valued him as an influential nation and would rather just begin meetings earlier without his miserable presence to ruin their happy times. Britain had, of course, jumped to the wrong conclusion. The nations that had arrived early (which was all of them) were huddled around a small television screen that, to Britain's slight surprise, was showing the BBC News Channel.

"We will make cheap gifts for your people?" stated China, whose tone seemed to imply that it was both a question and a statement of fact at the same time, "We need only your permission and the royal seal."

"Britain!" purred France, "Would you like me to make the dress for her? My fashion is way better than yours, you wouldn't like Kate to look like a meringue on her special day would you?"

"You are going to invite me, _ja_?" asked Germany, "I know we have our problems, but-"

"We can cook if you like! You'll kill the Royal Family if you're left in charge of the food," began (N.)Italy, "We can have pasta and pizza and no one has to die because your food is so bland!"

Britain had not expected to be mobbed so quickly, or at all. He had pushed open the door and entered when all of a sudden, all of the nations (bar one or two) had crowded around him and had started pestering him. Aside from the fact that they were invading his personal space, they were all talking at the same time and he could barely make out what any one of them was saying at any given time. Why were they so interested anyway? Half of the countries pestering him had either rid themselves of their own monarchy or simply disliked Britain altogether.

Britain desperately wanted to shout 'GET THE BLOODY HELL AWAY FROM ME' but he quickly realised that it may be to his advantage to be quiet and accept their bizarre appreciation. Other countries seemed fascinated by the latest development in the British monarchy. Britain would be in the limelight, if only for a short while, and aside from that, the potential financial income produced from tourists and souvenirs would probably outweigh the cost of the wedding itself.

_This could work._ mused Britain silently to himself.

Britain quietly urged them to calm down, assuring all of the nations that they would have an opportunity to speak to him, but stated that, in the mean time, they should attend to the meeting at hand and focus on the more important world issues. This plan worked brilliantly. As soon as all the nations had seated, the host nation decided that they would scrap the meeting agenda altogether and spend the rest of the time talking about the Royal Wedding. Britain had become the centre of attention and he was absolutely adoring it, even if a truly British façade of modesty was what his face was actually portraying. At least, he was adoring it until he started being asked questions.

"Do you know what she's wearing?"

"What?" frowned Britain, bemused by the question, "No. Why would I?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Where's it going to be?"

"England, where did you think?" replied Britain, "They're _English_."

"You can hold it in my country if you like. It's less likely to rain."

"Will she be taking an umbrella?"

"How about a nice snowy wedding? We have lots of snow."

"Look," snapped Britain, "I've already had this discussion with Scotland!"

"It only rains like twice a year in _my _country."

"Oh stop lying. I was there last week. It rained for five days."

"How about my country?"

"You're not even supposed to be in here! Get out!"

"My country is very beautiful in spring, perhaps you would consider…"

The questions continued. They continued their vicious onslaught even as the poor Brit thwacked his head against the table in a bid to knock himself unconscious. Having failed in that venture, he proceeded to smother his two ears with his hands; anything to stop the noise. They were gradually moving out of their seats and closer to him as well. He was beginning to wonder why he'd wanted their attention in the first place and began to realise just why the other countries in the UK had nominated him to represent them collectively as Britain at these meetings. The bastards.

"Hey, hey, Britain!" claimed the distinctive toe-curling accent of his former colony, "Hey, you won't _believe _what I just found out!"

_Oh God, _pleaded Britain mentally, _Why can't I just die?_

Aware that he would regret the action as soon as he did it, Britain raised his head from its resting position on the table. His eyes were greeted by America's face, which was within a wholesomely unhealthy proximity to his own. Instinctively, the Brit leapt out of his seat, stumbling over at least three nations in the process. They were all _staring _at him and America had climbed _over _the table just to tell him one lousy thing. It was probably going to be the lousiest thing ever spoken as well. America had an innate habit for such things.

"Kate is an eighth cousin eight times removed from George Washington!" exclaimed America, whispering the second statement in a voice quieter than silence, "Through common ancestor Sir William Gascoigne who died in 1487*****."

"What the bloody hell? You just had to get _you_ in there somewhere didn't you?" Britain paused through his rant, realising that America had whispered something, which could probably be significant, "Wait, what was that last bit?"

"."

"Common ancestor Sir William Gascoigne who…?" asked a smug Britain, aware that America had greatly underestimated Britain's hearing capabilities, "I didn't quite catch that last bit."

"Diedin1487."

"Died in 1487," Britain smiled gleefully, "So, you're saying that Kate Middleton is related to George Washington because they have a common ancestor who died centuries before either of them were actually born?"

America frowned and turned (temporarily) quiet. It sounded stupid when it was put that way. This is pretty much how the meeting continued. Britain was forced to listen to the (apparently) astute observations of other countries, and rather cynical criticisms of some others. Many countries were praising him whilst insulting him in the same sentence. Even Commonwealth countries – who were getting a free Bank Holiday out of the whole thing – managed to find ways to criticise the Royal Family and call Britain stupid.

America, having not dug himself a deep enough hole as it was, decided to note that the Royal Family was 'primitive', a 'relic of a bygone era' and even had the nerve to state that the Royal Family was a 'clear sign… of Britain's arrested development, and of America's superior constitution'*****. Admittedly though, America had been reading this from a newspaper article, as the words were clearly not within his normal vocabulary. Britain would have been deeply wounded by the statement if he wasn't so busy trying to fight off the countries restraining him from punching his former colony's lights out.

In the corner of the room, so as to put the greatest distance possible between himself and the currently fuming red Britain, New Zealand began to shout out derisive comments about Britain's inability to handle money. The Commonwealth country stated that the 'cost of Prince William and Kate Middleton's union will run into millions', which with the harsh cuts Britain was already facing, would only cause further problems. For pointing out this hardship, New Zealand came under fire from Britain's (currently) terrifying glare.

The meeting came to an end after one particularly wounding insult had been met with an equally wounding injury. The nation wounded by the insult, Britain, had to be removed by the combined force of Germany, Russia, America and China for the safety of everyone else in the room. As it turned out, the rest of the nations present had forgotten that the British have a deeply-routed defensive streak that can cause outbreaks of extreme and uncharacteristic violence, be it verbal or otherwise. That was certainly something the injured nation would not be forgetting in a hurry.

_Whilst we did not attack any country as a result of comments made about the engagement, there were many countries making remarks and some of them are quite offensive. We did feel quite a large degree of apathy towards the engagement, but (as a general rule) the British get very defensive about things. Even if we hate something, such as our hometown, if you insult it, we will defend it to the bone._

_* The Boston Globe did report these findings, which had been the research of the New England Historic Genealogical Society, who have clearly got nothing better to be getting on with_

_* Again, true story, the Huffington Post featured an article written by Jonathan Ezer where he claimed such (stupid) things_


	5. 21st May 2011

**I rather feel like I'm pestering you for reviews, but please, a single-word review would suffice and it would be a really nice thing to do. Aside from that, I would really like an idea of what sort of events you'd like me to cover. More from WWII? Some random Victorian-era chapters? Please let me know. Thank you.**

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_How England and Northern Ireland may have reacted to two notable pieces of news that occurred on the 21__st__ of May._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Derry city centre bomb thrown into bank by attackers**

**21****st**** May 2011**

"It's nice to be back."

This was a massive understatement: England could not describe how relieved he was to be back.

His Queen (and himself) had been conducting a State Visit in Ireland. It was the first such State Visit since Ireland's Independence in 1921. It had been a long time since any attempt at reconciliation had been made between the two nations and England could not stop fearing for his Queen the entire time they were there. Not only had there been two bomb scares hours before they were due to arrive in Dublin, but it would be utterly tragic if something happened to the Queen before the Diamond Jubilee next year.

Relieved that the entire thing had gone by without a single explosion, he settled down into his armchair, clasping a recently brewed cup of tea between his hands. All in all, it had been surprisingly successful. Some of Ireland's more republican-minded minority had taken to the streets with banners, but there were surprisingly few of them, and even then they were vastly outnumbered by apparently quite contented people. Similarly, Ireland appeared to have recognised Britain's very genuine emotions throughout the State Visit.

England had long accepted that Ireland's fight for independence had been a perfectly legitimate one, though he had previously claimed that it wasn't, and England and his government had also accepted that Britain had committed some absolute atrocities against the Irish. Britain accepted this, and even accepted that his fellow siblings had had very little to do with these crimes and that the vast majority of them had been committed by England and England alone. In fact, England could be held singularly responsible for virtually all of the atrocities that had been seen in the colonies. It was probably a good thing that England never looked too far back.

_01:20pm_

KABOOM!

England's lips tightened. His back straightened. He ached. Something had happened.

Whilst at home, surrounded by his brothers, he represented only his country, England. If anything ever happened to one of the United Kingdom's countries whilst he was not at home, regardless of where the incident had occurred, Britain would feel it in every bit as much detail as the other effected country. When inside his own borders, where he need only represent his own little country, these sensations were dulled to a point of near invisibility. England would only catch a glimpse of what his brother was feeling. So when, after the brief echoing noise in his ears, he felt an agonising terror flash through his entire being, he knew that something was wrong.

"North." he whispered, almost breathlessly.

A bomb. In Northern Ireland. Again.

The Irish problem*.

England hated calling it that. By all intents and purposes, it was a fairly accurate description of the seemingly unending social tensions faced by Northern Ireland, but there seemed so much negativity in the phrase so as to be entirely unappealing. England himself didn't like using it, neither did the few pockets of Irish-Catholic communities in Britain, but Westminster's politicians and experienced political scientists found it to be the most accurate way of describing the tensions and issues which had dogged the UK for a large part of the last century, and which continued to cause problems today.

Knowing what had to be done, England left the comfort of his much- loved armchair and headed towards the door. He had to visit North. There was no question. Whilst crossing the ten feet or so that separated the chair from the antiquated front door, England pulled his mobile from the confines of his jacket, which, to his surprise, he had forgotten to take off earlier. He rang Wales first. He always rang Wales first. Wales was less likely to bite his head off. England had opened and locked the front door behind him by the time Wales had picked up on the other line.

"What d'you want now?" sighed Wales, "This about-"

"You felt it, right?" asked England, perfectly aware that he had just been quite rude and interrupted his sibling.

"…"

"Wales?" pressed England, having locked up the door and begun walking away from his home. He paused mid-stride, in the middle of the street waiting for a response, concerned that perhaps something was wrong, or that perhaps his brother had simply taken to ignoring him (again), "Wales!"

"Yes I felt it!" snapped Wales, whose accent caused the sudden aggressiveness of his tone to be somewhat diminished, as the Welsh accent doesn't really lend itself very well to snappy, aggressive barks, "It's North, isn't it?"

"Obviously," muttered England, continuing his walk to his transportation after having been assured that his sibling was in fact paying attention to him, "I'm going over to see North now, are you coming?"

"…"

"Okay," sighed England, "That's fine, I understand… just, can you do me a favour and tell Scotland?"

"Why?" asked Wales, "He'll already know."

"Just," England paused and kneaded his forehead with his free hand, "Do it, ok?"

"You're overreacting," began Wales, "North's dealt with _far _worse. Remember Blo-"

"Don't you _dare _bring that up," hissed England, "And that's beside the point. I don't care if he's sitting at home dancing because he's so unaffected by what this bomb's done, it's my duty to make sure he's okay."

"As the UK?"

"As his _brother_," snapped England, "Just, tell Scotland and expect a phone call from me or North later on: you'll be getting an update whether you bloody well want it or not."

England hung up and frowned at the disconnected phone. Wales had a point, in that Northern Ireland was somewhat of a hard nut, like all of his brothers. Each of the nations in the UK, and the Republic of Ireland, had had their fair share of tragedies and bombings and riots and attacks and massacres, but North's share were more recent and were certainly ongoing. Whilst England was sure that North would probably take the bombing in his stride, it had been a while since one had actually exploded and any sort of attack on a country, or in a country, is traumatic to its personification. Aside from that, it was natural brotherly concern that hurried England to North's house.

Sometimes he wondered if his brothers really liked him at all. He couldn't tell whether the success of their nationalist parties was due to genuine feelings towards independence or simply because they disliked the other political parties on offer. A part of him deeply admired their recovery of their culture and their language and their identity, whilst an even deeper part of him was sickeningly jealous. The more they rediscovered their own identities, the further away they seemed to grow. Their resentment felt more genuine, and less like playful, harmless banter. Their calls for stronger powers felt more like the stepping stones towards independence. England sighed. Problems for another day, he supposed quietly.

_A short while later…_

"North?"

No answer.

"NORTH!"

"England?"

This was the second time that day that England felt relief. He had, as impolite as it was, entered North's house without permission. England had a spare key to all of his brothers' houses, just as they all had access to his. They were supposed to be for emergency use only, and whilst England kept rigidly to this convention, his older siblings would often slip into his house, abusing their key-owning rights, and leaving some surprise or prank for him. England often regretted allowing them such access, but in moments like these, he could not be more assured of the arrangement's benefits to him.

The layout of North's house was a sort of mishmash of England's own house and that of Ireland's, but despite this apparent clash, England knew the house inside out. He found his shaken sibling resting on a large settee, which lay in a separate room which could be found just off the hallway that formed the house's entrance. The large settee rested along the longest wall of the room, facing a fireplace which held an eclectic mix of modern and ancient styles. A television, on but burbling almost silently away to itself, sat in the farthest corner of the room on a small cabinet, behind whose glass doors could be found a wide ranging collection of DVDs and CDs. England would have taken a little time to observe the slight change in colour scheme, had his eyes not fallen upon the shivering frame of his brother.

Northern Ireland was sat in one corner of the four-seat settee, curled up into a ball so small and so tight so as to make him almost invisible. It was hard to tell, due to the desperation with which he held himself, but England was sure he could see faint shivers fibrillating along North's body. England frowned, worried. It was impossible to tell whether any damage had actually been done or not, whether the bomb had killed or maimed or injured, due to the way in which North was holding himself. England hoped that no damage had been done, even if none had been done, an explosion was enough to shake up any country and some reassurance was in order.

"North?" whispered England, his voice delicate and quiet, though loaded with a heavy sense of not actually knowing what to do, or how to comfort his sibling, "North, what happened? Are you okay?"

Even as he had spoken the words, England mentally reprimanded himself for his poor comforting skills, _'Are you okay?' Of course he's not okay you utter pillock*, what sort of a question is that?_

"Derry…" North paused, a weak smile pulling at the corners of his tight, pale lips, "Londonderry…"

England frowned as his sibling paused, thrown back into some reverie. Knowing that the answers would only come out slowly, as his sibling continued to be slightly thrown off by the event, England offered the only comfort he knew, "Cup of tea*?"

North smiled.

_One boiled kettle later…_

"Here you go!" smiled England.

England passed the steaming cup over to his sibling, who accepted it with a weak, warm and brave smile, before cupping it in between his two hands as though it were the Holy Grail. England, naturally, had also made one for himself, and the two sat for a while in amicable silence, allowing the warmth of the cups to seep into their hands and occasionally braving the heat to sip at the life-restoring liquid. Whilst this silence, to an outsider, may have seemed awkward and uncomfortable, neither of the two siblings felt uneasy. In fact, the brief silence that sat between them was one of acknowledgement and support and friendship. Odd as it may have seemed.

"Well?" asked England.

"Better than the shite* I 'ad last time," stated North, "Tasted like soapy water."

"Earl Grey does _not _taste like soapy water*," growled England, defending one of his favourite tea variants (after English Breakfast, of course), "And I didn't _mean _the tea."

North paused and gazed blankly into his tea. Northern Ireland was rather predictably very similar to his independent sibling. Despite this, North's hair was a more subtle shade of red. In fact, this redness was so subtle so as for his hair to appear mostly brown, most of the time. Like all of the siblings in the British Isles, North had green eyes. However, the shade of green in North's eyes was a much deeper shade of green than England's, almost seeming to turn a shade of blue in certain intensities of light. Unlike Scotland's distinctly muscular build, North was far more peculiar, because, whilst he was by no means scrawny, he certainly did not match Scotland's muscle. North looked up and met England's eyes.

"A bomb wus thrown into a shop or somethin' in Derry…" a weak smile and North added the alternate name again, looking away as he did, "Londonderry."

"Anyone hurt?" asked England, sitting up straight suddenly.

"Nah, just property damage," sighed North, "Shook the bejesus* out of a bunch of kids an' families. 'Ad ter shut down the city centre as well, again."

"No serious harm though?" asked England, sighing relief into his tea and sipping it lightly, before adding, "That's good."

"Sheer dumb luck no one wus killed accordin' ter the police," stated North, staring blankly into his tea, "They better catch the bastards."

"I'm sure they will, they always-"

**Hampshire 'tiger sighting' causes major alert**

**21****st**** May 2011**

_~ Maybe, I don't really want to know, how your garden grows, 'coz I just want to fly ~ _

England fumbled frantically in his jacket pocket to retrieve the ringing mobile.

_~ Lately, did you ever feel the pain, in the morning rain, as it soaks you to the bone ~ _

North frowned slightly before a small, knowing smile crept up on his face.

_~ Maybe I just want to fly, wanna live, I don't wanna die, maybe I just wanna ~*_

"YES! Hello?"

North's face erupted into a massive grin. England has always been good at hiding his 'true' self behind a façade of gentlemanly politeness and manners but virtually everyone saw through it, particularly his older siblings. It was hysterically adorable, how frantic England was to stop his phone ringing, just so that the ringtone ceased. In fact, England was so desperate to stop his mobile from releasing the ringtone that he had shouted 'yes' with far more volume than was necessary, though it was probably of sufficient volume to partially deafen the person on the other line.

"Oh…" began England, his face falling into a seriously concerned expression as he got to his feet and began to pace the room silently with the tea cup in his one hand and his other holding the mobile to his right ear, "Oh bollocks, that's not good… Has it moved, at all? … No? Oh, okay, that's good… What about the M27*? …"

North listened intently to the conversation. It didn't sound like a good thing but it couldn't be too bad, England (and all his siblings, to a lesser degree) would have felt it before the phone call if it was something serious. Though, from England's drawn face, North deduced that something pretty serious was going down that hadn't caused damage yet, but seemed as though it could if left to its own devices. It wasn't a call from London, so the capital, at least, was safe, but aside from that, the problem could be anywhere at all in England that was close to the M27. North continued to listen, hoping to piece a story together from the conversation.

"Could you patch me through to- … Oh, thank you, yes that's- … Oh! Hello, chaps!" England's voice rose immediately by an octave or two, clearly taken off-guard by the speed with which his request had been carried out, "You over the field yet?"

North frowned, confused. Just what the hell was going on? What was the 'it'? Why was 'it' in a field? What _about _the M27? And who were these 'chaps' England had been patched through to?

"It's… okay, have you tried the infa-" England paused, "Tell me you're kidding… Oh, fan-bloody-tastic! This is going to be on the national news isn't it? Oh, yeah, thanks, guys, nice work… yup, yeah, okay, bye."

England hung up and doggedly thrust his mobile into his jacket's pocket. He slumped into the settee, seeming to almost collapse into it. He began slurping his tea, ignoring the burning sensation that scorched his upper mouth. North turned and stared at him, having forgotten his shake-up in the interesting developments that appeared to have occurred in England. Judging from England's behaviour, it was something he wouldn't want to tell his siblings. This meant that it was something tease-worthy. This meant it was something he was never going to live down. Ever.

"Soooo," cooed North, desperate for the gossip, "What's 'appened?"

"Tiger sighting in Hampshire."

North frowned.

"It was sitting in a field, not moving," sighed England heavily, "With no heat signature, and then it blew over in a down-draft."

North paused.

"So it wus a stuffed toy?"

"A _life-sized _stuffed toy." corrected England.

"Ah, yer never gonna live this down."

"I know," sighed England, "I know."

_Both stories are true. On the 21__st__ May, a bomb, contained within a hold-all, was thrown into a bank in Northern Ireland by masked men. There were no reports of injuries, though the device did do extensive damage to the inside of the building. Most of the surrounding areas were evacuated and the city centre was closed down. Whilst no one was hurt, a police inspector did state that people 'could have been killed when the explosion went off'._

_As for the tiger sighting, a concerned member of the public raised the alarm and the police investigated. Officers closed in around the field, and confirmed that they could see the tiger. After a helicopter with thermal imaging cameras swept over the tiger, they discovered that it had no body heat. When the tiger was blown over because of the helicopter's down draft, the police moved in and discovered that it was in fact a life-sized stuffed toy. They even had a tranquilizer team on hand just in case. _

_Additionally, I am basing the physical appearance of the characters of Scotland, Wales and on a DeviantArt picture created by Annaciel, which I would advise you go and see._

_*the Irish problem: I had never heard of this before I looked at some politics lecture transcripts, I happen to think it sounds very negative and quite distasteful (but I'm from one of those Irish-Catholic pockets, so I'm pretty biased, all things considered)_

_*pillock: one of the many, many words of British slang meaning idiot_

_*it is not an understatement or an exaggeration to say that almost all traumatic events, pieces of bad news or things along those lines are all greeted with cups of tea, after funerals, particularly, the kettle won't stop being boiled_

*_shite: shit_

_*Earl Grey does not taste like soapy water, though my (Northern) Irish granddad once claimed that it did, much to our amusement (and my parents' mild horror)_

_*bejesus: in this context, it means 'scared the living daylights [out of]', I've heard my Irish cousins and uncles use it but I'm not sure if I've actually spelt it right, correct me if I'm wrong_

_*according to XFM's Best British Songs of All Time, Oasis's 'Live Forever' is no.1, which is why I have used it as England's generic ringing tone _

_*M27: one of Britain's motorways_


	6. 21st November 1920

**A/N: I should point out that I found it incredibly difficult to write Ireland, and no matter how much research I did, I couldn't find a good idea about how Irish people at the time felt about independence. Being as they were Irish, I'd assume that the vast majority weren't really all that fussed (as they're, from my experiences, generally quite laid back and relaxed), but certainly would have been bothered by the clear distrust expressed by the British government and the horrific actions taken by their operatives. I do apologise if any of you feel this is a poor representation, I have tried my very best. Also, I see Ireland as a bloke and until Hetalia confirms otherwise, I shall write him as such. (Apologies there).**

**At the request of **Korean Boron.

**Please review with requests, praise, constructive criticism or otherwise.**

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_How the then nations of the United Kingdom may have reacted to Bloody Sunday. _

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Bloody Sunday**

**21****st**** November 1920**

_09:32am_

It was bizarre, but it had been this way for a while. There was Ireland, proud as can be and able to bear grudges like they were going out of fashion, which, predictably, they weren't, and then there was the other Ireland. Often referring to himself as Ulster*, this other Ireland seemed different, though very much the same. Ulster was bodiless and was more like a ghostly, translucent figure with no solid presence, though his sibling, Ireland, was as solid as the next man. Ulster was a mysterious sort of thing, and no one really knew why he existed, though England had explained that he'd seen this sort of translucent thing before*. One thing, however, was startlingly clear: Ulster was a unionist* through and through and could not be allowed anywhere near the meeting.

The plan was pretty simple. The IRA* had put together a plan to eliminate the so-called 'Cairo Gang'*, which consisted of undercover British Intelligence agents working in Dublin. Ireland did not feel the slightest guilt in this operation. Assassinating spies was nothing new and was certainly not an unexpected danger during wartime. Aside from that, the British Intelligence Services had a terrifyingly complex and effective web of information in Dublin which, unless dismantled as soon as possible, could cause unimaginable trouble to IRA and separatist operations. As much as the actions would likely enflame British aggression, it was a necessary operation on their way to Independence. All Ireland wanted was to be an independent nation, why did England have so much trouble understanding that?

Ireland sat opposite Michael Collins* in front of whom sat a telephone. Beside the telephone, sitting to its right, was a list and a pen. The list originally consisted of fifty names and had been designed upon Collins's insistence, but the list upon the desk now consisted of only thirty five names as Cathal Burgha*had expressed concern that many of the names had insufficient evidence against them. It was ambitious, Ireland knew, to go after so many in one morning, and none of them had the slightest doubt that they would fail to achieve the exact target number, but if they could take out even a minority of the Cairo Gang, they could just cause enough damage to put themselves in pretty good stead.

_Ring! Ring! Ring! … Ring! Ring! Ring!_

Ireland watched with heightened emotions as Collins shot his hand out to answer the phone. He held the phone to his ear with a stern, stoic expression, though his hand was visibly shaking with anticipation, fear and a mixture of other emotions the entire time. This fear and anticipation was well placed, they'd already had some successful assassinations, as well as half successful, half botched ones. Any news could be coming down the other end of that phone and the news could either be pretty good, or pretty bad. After all, they were targeting the British Intelligence services and these services were not precisely renowned for being pushovers by any stretch of even the most prolific imagination.

"Where?" asked Collins, caught in his conversation over the phone, "More'ampton Road, ye say? Tree?* An' their names?"

Ireland watched as Collins quickly drew black lines through three names on the list.

"Ah, that's grand, thanks," stated Collins, finishing off with, "Bye."

"Tree?" asked Ireland, surprised, though relieved, by the number.

"Yup," nodded Collins, placing the phone down and relaxing a little into his chair, as though a tiny little burden had fluttered away from off his shoulders, "We're makin' good progress."

Ireland smiled but quickly turned to look at his watch disdainfully. _Someone _had booked him a lunch with his 'brothers'. It wouldn't end well. It probably wouldn't even start well. The Irish War of Independence may very well be a guerrilla war, but warring nations were never meant to meet up and share _lunch. _Even if the two sides were actively going about negotiating with one another, to share lunch and pretend everything was normal was a complete joke. Something bad was bound to happen, and then there'd be a fight and then there'd be a sudden surge of distrust within the population and then the whole thing would just escalate again. Aside from that, none of the brothers particularly wanted to share lunch with _England_: the man had been like a plank since the end of WWI, hardly suited to make polite conversation at a dinner table.

"Ye, uh, seein' '_im_ today?"

"It wus al' Ulster's idea," snapped Ireland quickly, eager to distance himself from his brothers (England above all else) as much as possible, "'e tinks we'll jist forgive each other, get along an' be a 'appy family again. I don't tink de wee scamp understands de concept of independence."

Ireland slid himself out of his seat and neatly tucked it under the table, a habit he wasn't entirely aware he was stuck with. He nodded at Collins after briefly checking the time on his watch again and made his way over to the door slowly. He did so far slower than was actually necessary because truthfully, he didn't really want to see his brother. Ireland blamed England entirely for the Potato Famine (with pretty damned good reason) and it wasn't something Ireland could just forget. England had stolen away his parliament with the Acts of Union and then had (indirectly) left him with only a quarter of his population and then, then England had the nerve to fight tooth and nail to keep him like some caged animal! England had done more than enough to warrant Ireland's guerrilla warfare, but a small part of Ireland felt a little bad: was all this bloodshed really necessary?

"Jist be careful 'roun' '_im_, alrigh'?" requested Collins, concern evident in his voice, "England won't be too 'appy about dis mornin'."

"Pah!" scoffed Ireland loudly, "England 'asn't been 'appy since 'e wus born. Dat, an' 'e's still recoverin' from de Great War. Even if 'e does know about de operation, 'e'll proobably be away wi' de faeries de entire time."

Ireland opened the door and pulled it to behind him. He found himself immediately leaning against it and kneading his forehead. It was a confusing time for him. He didn't like England one bit, but somehow, 'hate' felt too strong. Yes, the Englishman was a complete and utter bastard who was insufferable as hell and a tyrannical arse, but the fact remained that Ireland was generally a very laid back and happy country. Yes, he was proud. Yes, he was capable of holding grudges for an inordinately long amount of time. However, these were traits common in all of his siblings, and they certainly did not detract from his generally outgoing, cheerful and happy nature. He didn't _hate _England, but he certainly didn't like him.

"Tis gonna be a long day." sighed Ireland to himself, a vague tone of resignation seeping into his voice (misery wasn't something he could manage with ease).

_02:30pm_

"'Ow is 'e?" asked Ireland, having met his translucent semi-ghostly 'brother' in the corridor just outside the entrance to the restaurant within which their booked table sat, "England, I mean."

"As well as 'e can be expected ter," sighed Ulster, a slight sadness creeping into his voice, though it were certainly not enough to distract from his generally cheery aura, "'e's as strong as 'e is stubborn but 'e's still recoverin'."

"We're all recoverin'," declared Ireland, rightfully so, waving off the comment as blatantly obvious and therefore pointless, "Wat 'e needs is a night on de town!"

Ireland was in a fairly good mood (given the rather sombre events of the morning, assassinations do that to a person) and he was fairly sure that the promise of free food and alcohol had something to do with this sudden change in mood. He was in such a good mood that his movement towards the grand old wooden door could easily have been mistaken as a girly prance, or, better still, a childish skip. Hand resting on the handle, Ireland was all but ready to fling the door open and cheerfully prance into the room with a degree of happiness that seemed nothing short of inappropriate in the midst of one war in the wake of the Great War. This action of opening the door, however, was never carried out in quite the way Ireland intended as he felt Ulster's gaze boring holes in the back of his head.

"Wat?"

"Scotland and Wales already took 'im out on de town."

"An'?" asked Ireland, concern almost seeping into his voice as he observed the sad, worried look that was visibly creeping into Ulster's face, "Wat 'appened?"

"Nothin'," sighed Ulster, as though the absence of England's normal list of drunken behaviour were somehow signs of impending doom, "'E didn't get loud or aggressive. 'E didn't start cryin' or whingin'. 'E just sat dere an' drank, like he always does. Cud ye be careful round 'im? 'E seems so fragile…"

"Don't ye worry!" assured Ireland, a happy smile sitting upon his face, "England's de toughest out of de lot of us. 'E'll recover through sheer bleedin' determination if nothin' else."

Ulster smiled sadly, as though still unsure, though he said nothing to contradict Ireland's proclamation; a small part of him hoped that every word was true. The acknowledgement in Ulster's face was all the accord Ireland needed and he proceeded to punch the door into a full swing that was halted as the brown wood resounded and resonated upon colliding with the wall. Entering with a happy aura, Ireland almost pranced over to his seat, happy to be sitting in between Wales and Scotland, rather than in touching distance of England. Ulster, sighing in exasperation, though behaving in much the same fashion, took up his seat beside England and Wales. The awkward silence that greeted the buoyant entrance of the two Irelands was, retrospectively, actually preferable to the chaos that would unfold later that day.

Ireland stared over at England with intense interest, having not seen the almighty United Kingdom for a fair few months, due almost entirely to their ongoing war. He seemed healthy enough, though there were certain features that indicated the stress he was under. Hazed, barely focused green eyes stared blankly at the white table cloth covering the sheets, as though utterly entranced by the none existent design, which was not embroidered into them. Dark bags of almost bruised skin hung, sagging, beneath the Englishman's eyes, indicating insomnia, though it was unclear what causes were to blame for this sleeplessness. The dishevelled appearance of England was fairly concerning, though the most concerning part was, perhaps, that it was clear that England _had _actually _tried _to look presentable; having simply failed in a rather spectacular fashion.

The problems dogging England were fairly well known to the other countries present, if only because, to a lesser extent, they felt them as well. There were the ever-lingering horrors of the war*, apparently burned and deeply engrained in the man's mind, and then there was the stress of the Anglo-Irish War*, as England had taken to calling it when he bothered to speak at all. On top of that, the rationing of certain food substances, such as sugar, was still in effect* and the economic cost of the Great War was utterly mindboggling. None of the other nations present knew exactly how big the economic problems England had* truly were, (this was more due to his lack of communication than through any intention to keep them in the dark) but they did know that he owed America more money than could ever be considered to be a good idea*.

"Y'alright, England?" asked Ireland, hoping to provoke some response from the half-asleep Englishman, "'Ow're ye keepin'?"

"Hmm?" hummed England, slowly looking upwards and smiling weakly before excusing himself, "Sorry?"

"'Ow're ye keepin'?" repeated Ireland, trying his best to annunciate his words, in the vain hope that England may understand and even respond to the question.

"Hmm?" hummed England again, "I'm fine. You?"

Ireland, like everyone else present, frowned. Fine? The man was anything but. England had been selling things abroad like a madman when he was lucid enough to do so and that's only if the strain of the Anglo-Irish War didn't hit him before he could get to the telephone. It was, admittedly, quite horrible seeing him so fragile, particularly given that he was supposedly the all-powerful British Empire. The Commonwealth had begun to notice it as well, just how fragile England's power really was. England's siblings felt sorry for him, partly because they were part of the United Kingdom as well, but mostly because it had been an incredibly long time since they'd seen him looking so utterly exhausted.

Having said that though, England was recovering faster than most. Compared to the other European powers involved in the war, the United Kingdom got off very lightly. The colonies had helped during the war to provide materials and essential goods, others had been bought from America and transported over the pond, and rationing stopped starvation. On top of all that, Britain had the forces from its Dominions, from places like Canada and Australia, and so the loss of life was less than it would have been had England and his brothers been fighting alone. Britain was in debt, but had overseas investments worth more than some countries could dream of. All in all, the UK was doing alright, GDP was recovering and so was the economy, but the Great War had clearly made its impact, and it was obvious that this would be a lasting one.

"Grand," assured Ireland, because if England was allowed to lie at the dinner table, then so was he, "So, Scotland, Wales, 'ow're yerselves keepin'?"

Ireland had decided to change the conversation, or, at least direct it towards people who would give half-intelligible responses within three minutes of the question being asked. Within seconds of Ireland removing his attention from England, the man had once again hung his head and begun to stare at his clasped hands, as though there was something fascinating and remarkable hidden within the contours that made up his ragged fists. Scotland and Wales were attentive to Ireland and turned to face him the very second he had spoken their names, though, he noticed, their eyes would flitter quickly to the side and glance upon England, as though afraid that he would simply fall apart if left alone.

"We're fine," assured Wales, "But we still can't figure 'im out. He won't tell us anything. He's behaving differently so I think he might be comin' out of that stuffy Victorian-age crap but he won't speak, so it's hard to tell."

"Hmph," grunted Scotland, his suddenly darkened gaze falling upon Ireland, "Whit happened thes mornin'? Ah woke up to screamin', an' it wasnae very nice. 'At an' th' awful headache Ah hud."

Ireland frowned slightly, aware of the implication, though wary to hide his involvement, "Dis mornin'? I didn't 'ear of anythin' 'appenin' dis mornin'."

Scotland glowered, distrust and disbelief evident in his eyes, but the matter was dropped and 'polite' conversation ensued. 'Polite', of course, in the sense that certain topics (such as the current war) were avoided, as swearing remained prolific and vulgar (after all, it _was_ the United Kingdom, where 'polite' can have ten different definitions depending on the circumstances).

_03:21pm_

Ireland felt himself smile slightly. The dinner was ongoing, though they had all moved over to the bar now, and it was somewhat more informal and less stuffy and awkward than it had been. This lack of awkwardness allowed Ireland to reflect briefly on the comings and goings of his country. Despite the news of the killings having now broke out into the general media, his Irishmen and women continued with their lives, more weary than concerned. He could feel over five thousand of them crammed into Croke Park for a football match* (which England had, before his current state, insisted be called gaelic football (Ireland, of course, ignored these pleas)). The fact that the match had started half an hour late was of no significance, save for pointing out how bad timekeeping was an inherent trait in Ireland*.

"Excuse me, Mr England, Sir?"

Ireland had his attention immediately drawn away from his introspective evaluation of Dublin's populous. A man, suited and booted and looking all high and mighty, had entered the room with a printed message, apparently for England, and apparently a telegram. The man seemed accustomed to England's recently stunted behaviour, as he gently (though impatiently from the tell-tale tapping of his left foot) waited for England's half-conscious eyes to drift up to meet his own. Once this eye contact had been achieved, the human smiled sadly, nervously, and placed the telegram in England's hand, forcefully closing the nation's fingers around the crumpled paper message. Nodding once sure that England's fist was not going to bounce open and drop the paper to the floor, the man quietly left the room.

There was a long pause and it soon became clear that England would need prompting to open the small note. Wales did so with practiced, reassuring tones which were matched only by the fantastic volley of swears he was capable of when pressed. England unfolded the note and as his eyes drudged through the small document line by line, the haze of confusion and incoherence vanished from his eyes, as though a veil had been lifted and suddenly the world was a clear and startlingly terrifying place. England's eyes widened a tincy bit before he crumpled the paper in his hand, leant over the bar and began rubbing his forehead as though his lucidity immediately imposed a harsh hangover on his condition. As his brothers gradually moved towards him (more out of curiosity than concern, truth be told), vague mutterings could be heard, intermingled generously with swearwords.

"England?" asked Scotland, "Whit's happened now?"

"Ireland," began England, not turning to look at the man in question, though very clearly coherent and conscious to his words, "The authorities are going to surround Croke Park and search everyone who leaves. Anyone who tries to leave by any means other than the designated exits will be…" England choked uncomfortably on the word, "_Shot_. I don't know why they bother telling me these things anymore…"

"Why?" demanded Ireland, wondering what on Earth required such stringent measures. Admittedly, it _was _a football match but it was a gaelic football match and it was England who was famous for hooliganism, a fact the man only prided himself on when completely and utterly off-his-head drunk.

"I haven't got a bloody clue," replied England, "But I don't like it."

"Wat?"

"It's the RIC*, but apparently," began England, "They're sending the Auxiliaries* along as well. Bunch of crazy, drunken nutjobs*."

"They're doin' _wat_?" hissed Ireland, preparing himself to go on an uncontrolled rant before a shiver of fear erupted from his heart and he doubled over in pain.

_03:25pm_

BAN-BAN-BA-BANG!

It was excruciatingly painful and it was perhaps the violent, callous brutality of the act that worsened the sharp shots that brushed the delicate edges of his nerves. Ireland grabbed the few layers of material that sat over his heart with his right hand, wanting more than anything to tear Dublin out of his chest just so that the pain would go away. The pain was so sharp and focused that it was more unbearable than if someone had just attacked the city in its entirety, though the one up-side (if it could be so called) of this focus was that Ireland could identify immediately that it was Croke Park.

It was almost indescribable, as the suffocating strangulation he felt was coupled with body-piercing stabs in his heart and dull aching stamps all over his body. The variety of different pains was, unfortunately, not enough to distract him from the all-encompassing panic that he wanted to drown in, just so that the sensations wracking his body would cease. Every fibre of his being was fibrillating and shaking and twitching from the pain and the shock, even as the deafening blasts of the rounds fired off in his ears, seemingly without end.

"Whit h… ye ..ne?" came a distant, Scottish-tinged cry, "Wh.t hav. ye bludy …. d.n.? Th….. suppose.. t. fol… ..ders! Wa th'hell .id ye .ut ..em in Ireland?"

Ireland tried to listen, but all he could hear were the desperate, insanely terrified voices of his injured, horrified, innocent people as they were drowned in waves of brutal, unprovoked gunfire. He was sure he was crying and wailing, but he didn't care for what thoughts his brothers might have, because the pain was so incredibly unfair. There were _children_ in that park and they were being trampled to death or shot to death because of some fucking morons with guns who should never have been allowed out of whatever stinking corner of hell they had been summoned from.

Had Ireland not been so upset, so terrified, he may have noticed that he was lying on the floor, clinging to his chest as though it would fall off him if unattended, being cared for by his invisible Ulster and the concerned Wales. Had he not been so furious and so angry, he might have noticed the teary panic in the eyes of all his brothers. Had he been able to hear properly between the rounds of gunfire and screaming of innocents, he may have heard England's desperate protestations and Scotland's infuriated accusations. Instead, Ireland was discontent in his misery as he writhed on the floor with a pain no one could do anything to help.

"_Sssh_," assured a caring voice, "It's okay, we're here, we're here."

Ireland cried out loudly. They were firing on the people trying to escape. Why would they do that? They weren't climbing over the wall for the good of their health, they were climbing over the wall out of determination and panic and fear because they wanted to _live._ Ireland's ears were suddenly greeted by a heart-stopping _rat-at-at._ There was a _fucking_ armoured car outside firing over the crowd's heads. What was _wrong _with these people? Why were they hurting innocent people? It was a football match! There was nothing sinister or conspiratory about it! Ireland wept and wept, knowing that the tears falling down his face were now match for the blood blurting out of the wounds of his people.

After ninety long seconds, though it felt like almost a lifetime to the whimpering wreck of an island on the floor, Ireland's hearing was punctuated by dying breaths, alone and accompanied only by the other few doomed, waiting for the end to come as they realised the finality of their fatal wounds. The silence was punctuated by prayers, heard in between heaving, panicked, sorrow-wracked breaths. Ireland had known sorrow before, but never had it seemed so brutal and unnecessary and evil. The growing fury in Ireland's chest grew only from his abject despair and it would only grow larger and larger with every passing second until he himself felt entirely satisfied.

A guilty gulp penetrated the silence of the privately-booked room.

"Ir…" the voice was cut off by something caught in the throat, "Ireland?"

Ireland's green eyes blazed with a fury so raw and intense and uncontrollable that the source of the voice immediately took several steps backwards, keenly placing a chair between them. Ireland leapt to his feet, knocking Wales and Ulster away with the ferocity of the movement. The change from grieving mess on the floor to hellish demon bent on revenge was almost instantaneous and everyone in the room was stunned into silence. It was known that all of the Isles were capable of incredible bouts of violence and unadulterated anger, but it was rare for the usually lovable and easygoing Ireland to be so quick to fall into this mode, as such, the sight was a truly heartbreakingly frightening one.

"YE!" roared Ireland.

England instinctively leapt back.

"YE FECKIN' KILLED DEM YE HEARTLESS BASTARD!"

"I.. it wasn't… you heard when I-"

"Ireland, calm doon," ordered Scotland calmly, "It wasnae official, it's nae England-"

"GIT OUT!"

Ireland moved forwards and threw the chair out of the way, not observing it as it crashed another beneath its accelerated weight, obliterating the other entirely. England backed away faster than he'd moved for a long time, driven away by unadulterated fear, which was as plain as the bloody sun on his face.

"GIT OUT OF DIS ROOM!"

Ireland carried on charging forwards, none of the brothers daring to interfere. England kept moving backwards but stumbled over the leg of the table and fell to the floor with a hefty thump. Immediately, England's widened eyes stared upwards, realising that he was almost defenceless on the floor after his fall.

"GIT OUT OF ME LIFE!"

Roared Ireland once more, leaning down and grabbing England by the collar, watching with furious, righteous anger as the man beneath him let out an almost-whimper. Frogmarching his little brother towards the door, Ireland kicked the thing out of its frame and glared at England, almost blinded by tears of rage.

"GIT OUT OF ME FECKIN' COUNTRY!"

Ireland threw England out of the room with an adrenalin-fuelled strength that flung England into the wall with an almost concerning cracking sound that was the breaking of the door opposite. England paused there for a second: eyes wide with fear, skin turned pale in horror and mouth slightly parted. It was as though he wanted to give some comfort, or some words of brotherly love, or some words of apology, or maybe he just wanted to wipe his hands clean of the massacre. As England opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted violently by a thrown chair, which he narrowly dodged, and a furious cry.

"'Ow dare ye do dis to me innocent people. 'Ow dare ye," hissed Ireland, "Even if yer patetic excuse for a country is dissolved or bombed to smithereens, it won't be enoof. Git out of me sight."

Ireland turned his back on England. There was not a doubt in his heart that the Croke Park Massacre would be remembered. Seven had been shot to death. Five had been fatally wounded. Two more had been trampled to death by the crowd. Among the dead were two boys, aged ten and eleven, and a fiancé, due to be married just five days later. This was a Bloody Sunday, but it was to be the first of two known by such a name.

_This was incredibly difficult to write, and all I can do is hope that I've done it justice. Bloody Sunday (1920, there was a second in Derry in 1972) was a day of violence in Dublin that is most renowned for the Croke Park Massacre, where, against orders, the RIC opened fire on a crowd, killing fourteen completely innocent Irish civilians in a truly brutal and barbaric way. Bloody Sunday is believed to be the turning point of Irish public opinion, and rightfully so, the people lost virtually all faith in the Crown. _

_*Ulster: is Northern Ireland, here he is bodiless as Northern Ireland did not exist as a country back then and he exists in this story as it feels wrong to exclude him _

_*seen this sort of translucent thing before: a reference, of course, to the Wars of the Roses chapter(s)_

_*Ulster was a unionist: there were unionists in Ireland (still are in Northern Ireland) and Ulster/North is a good representation for them, I feel_

_*unionist: people who believe in maintaining the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, often simply referred to as 'the Union'_

_*IRA: Irish Republican Army_

_*Cairo Gang: eighteen high-ranking British Intelligence officers who gained the nickname from their patronage of the Cairo Café and from military intelligence service in Egypt and Palestine during WWI_

_*Michael Collins: served as the Irish Finance Minister between 1919 and 1922, whilst being the Director of Intelligence for the IRA_

_*Cathal Brugha: the Irish Minister for Defence at the time_

_*tree: three, ask an Irishman to count to ten and you will find that 'three' does indeed sound like 'tree', this is a great source of teasing between me and my cousins (they find me saying certain words absolutely hysterical, just as I find their inability to pronounce the 'h' in three amusing)_

_*lingering horrors of the war: the greatest impact on many of the countries affected by WWI was considered to be psychological, in that a lot of the youth (returning soldiers, returning nurses) were deeply affected by the things they had seen_

_*Anglo-Irish War: the Irish War of Independence_

_*the rationing of certain food substances… was still in effect: meat rationing ended in 1919, butter rationing ended in early 1920 and sugar rationing ended in late November 1920_

_*economic problems England had: interest payments formed 40% of all government spending, private investments abroad (worth £550 million) were sold to try and pay off debts, but investment after the war lead to financial losses of an estimated £300 million_

_*owed America more money than could ever be considered to be a good idea: by 1934, the UK owed America over $4.4 billion in WWI debt_

_*football match: football in Ireland refers to 'gaelic football' just as in America it refers to 'American football', and they use 'soccer' to mean what the rest of Europe would call 'football' because it is a game where you kick a ball with your feet _

_*bad timekeeping was an inherent trait in Ireland: this isn't (I'm told) a problem in large cities like Dublin, but from personal experience, the Irish are laid back to the point of having bad time keeping (this is not all Irishmen, I should point out, just the ones I know) and it would make an amusing, stereotypical trait, hence it being 'inherent' in my Hetalia's Ireland_

_*RIC: Royal Irish Constabulary, Ireland's major police force during the 19__th__ century and early part of the 20__th__ century, Ireland (the Republic of) now has the Garda Síochána (Guardians of the Peace) which is just an awesome name for a police force_

_*the Auxiliaries: a paramilitary organisation within the RIC that was renowned for doing pretty brutal, awful and violent things without being given commands, essentially a massive group of loose cannons causing pretty god-awful chaos_

_*bunch of crazy, drunken nutjobs: the Auxiliaries had a pretty bad reputation all round: the RIC didn't like them due to their drunkenness, lack of discipline and brutality, and the British Army expressed much the same sentiment, one officer remarked that they were 'totally undisciplined'_


	7. 8th April 1940

**Firstly, thanks to everyone who added this story to their favourites or story alerts. Secondly, a massive thanks to **Korean Boron**, whose review really made my day.**

**Please, if you have any feedback or suggestions, please review. It would also be nice just to hear what you think of the stories, even if you are literally just writing a review of one single word. Thank you.**

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_Operation Wilfred and how England may have reacted to the demise of _HMS_ Glowworm and 111 members of its crew._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**GREAT BRITAIN: Bewildered**

**8****th**** April 1940**

Britain gazed into the early morning light, whose golden aura twisted amongst the pink and the orange and the deep, thick red in order to form the incredible dawn into which the mighty metal machine doggedly trudged. His bright green eyes, almost as vibrant as the spectacular display of nature before him, sparkled warmly as they set themselves upon the bloody brilliant shades of light that sat on the horizon of the rolling tides. His entire body had long turned numb from the ferocity of the early morning wind, but he didn't seem to mind, much to the crew's tangible confusion. To feel the harsh cold air rush against his face was reason enough for his presence on the seemingly benign operation.

Chamberlain had been staunchly opposed to any sort of action that could put England, the representative for the entire Union, anywhere near the Germans. This, of course, was rather understandable, if a little paranoid. However, not even Chamberlain could bear to refuse Britain an opportunity to get out of the office and sail once more upon the sweet seas which he had once been so terribly fond of. Britain's love of the ocean had never really vanished, partly due to his people's fascination with beaches and the seaside, and so the sparkle of hope in his bright green eyes was more than enough to melt Chamberlain's resolve.

Operation Wilfred was underway, with Plan R 4 in place should their worst fears be realised. Whilst it was virtually entirely a British operation, it would be an outrageous lie to state that France had not been involved. After all, it was France who had successfully delayed the operation by three whole days thanks to his opposition to Operation Royal Marine. Britain would have dearly loved to tease his long-standing rival for this but the reasoning behind France's staunch dismissal of said operation was quite well-founded. Had Operation Royal Marine been authorised and the German targets along the Rhine attacked, France may very well have faced fierce retaliation and Britain did not want to be alone in this war.

Being alone in a war against Germany was not a desirable situation. At all.

"Sir?"

Britain was broken from his thoughts. So sudden was this separation, Britain nearly dropped his tea cup, which was clutched half-heartedly between his two gloved palms. Britain turned around with ease, not even vaguely bothered by the ship's listing as he stood upon her deck. He observed the messenger, who seemed like a usually bright and cheerful lad, even if his face was contorted entirely by anxiousness. The messenger's eyes were widened, his fist clamping down upon a scrap of paper. Observing the ferocity with which it was held, Britain felt one of his eyebrows raise involuntarily. The young lad was panting heavily, the origins of sweat beading on his forehead. What could have happened?

Britain had already received thirteen notes of protestation from Norway, who was, rather predictably, less than pleased by the fact that his neutral waters were being mined by British forces to try and prevent iron ore being traded to Germany, and had received a further five notes from Scotland, demanding the location of his alcohol. If it were either of those two bastards again, the messenger would have not ran to deliver the message and he would be carrying an expression of exasperation, not fear. Something had happened, and knowing Britain's luck, it was probably something bad.

"Yes?" queried Britain, who attempted to confirm his suspicions, despite knowing in advance that he was probably right, "It's not another protest note from Norway, is it? You'd think we were bombing his coast, the amount of fuss he's making!"

The messenger chuckled, barely.

Britain frowned.

It was something _really _quite bad then.

"It's from Force WS, Sir," declared the messenger, walking over to hand the note to Britain, "They've encountered a slight problem."

Receiving the note with an ill-concealed unease, Britain unravelled the crumpled scrap of paper. His almost-emerald eyes trailed across the paper, trudging through the small document as though physically pained by the effort. Upon reaching the end, he sighed heavily and passed it back to the messenger, strongly resisting the temptation to tear it apart with his teeth and throw it into the depths of the ocean. Amongst the myriad of emotions visible within the Brit's eyes, the most prominent by far was that of resignation.

"Germany."

Britain couldn't admit that he'd been expecting the German to show up so soon, but neither could he deny that he hadn't been expecting some sort of appearance. That's what Plan R4 had been created for. He had still rather been hoping, futile as it may seem retrospectively, that perhaps Germany would realise his error, back down and the whole damned 'phoney war' would just blow over. As usual, however, the one true law, Sod's Law*, reigned supreme, proving once again that Britain's never-ending cynicism was, in practice, actually pretty well founded, though only his siblings believed him.

"Right," sighed Britain, "Cheers."

"Well," began the messenger, "At least Norway'll stop pestering you now."

"Every cloud*, eh?" smiled Britain, before mumbling slightly, "Only thing that makes Sod's Law bloody bearable."

The messenger smiled and let out a small, but heartfelt, laugh, Britain saw fit to join him. They found comfort in the humour; they found comfort in the laughter. It was cold and it was outrageously early in the morning and they'd just received pretty unwanted news and the only way they could react to it was by laughing it off. They had to trivialise it upon discovering its severity, else the reality of it might just hit them and wind them.

"Are you going to come in, Sir?" asked the young male, turning towards the inside of the ship, towards the safety and warmth it offered.

"No. No, thanks," smiled Britain weakly, explaining himself before turning to face the shining morning light once more, "I think I'll just stay out here a little while longer."

The messenger left, shutting the door behind him and leaving Britain to his thoughts, of which there were many, for example: Force WS. It had spotted German ships and so the mining of Stadtlandet, the operation meant to be carried out by WS, was cancelled. Germany had chosen the same day to begin his invasion of Norway. At least Britain had the common decency to have prepared an invasion force _in case _of a German invasion, rather than just assume that this was the case and go charging in, guns blazing.

"No subtlety," sighed Britain, misery evident in his tone, "Bloody inconsiderate bastard."

"Looks like Germany's not gonna back down."

Britain, now England in the presence of one of his siblings, span around sharply on the spot. His green eyes fell immediately upon the figure of his brother, Northern Ireland, who was shutting the door behind him. England's face was immediately contorted by an equal measure of fury and concern, a mixture only usually managed by over-protective and paranoid mothers. Naturally, England's fury stemmed from the fact that he had not been informed by North's presence on the ship. Funnily enough, his concern had grown from rather the same fact.

"What in God's name are you doing here?" asked England, his voice an almost-shout.

"Union's at war," stated North simply, "I'm doin' me duty."

England grimaced and turned away from his older brother.

"Scotland an' Wales are 'elpin' too."

"What?" England exclaimed, spinning on his feet, eyes widened and frantic, "They're not here, are they? Where are they? Where? Who are they with!"

"England," stated North, "Calm down."

"Which Force are they with?"

"It doesn't matter," explained North, "It'll be grand*, yer know what they're like."

"WHICH FORCE ARE THEY WITH?" screamed England, "ANSWER ME!"

"WV," replied North, his voice almost a whisper from shock, "Why? What's wrong?"

North felt a slight feeling of panic and urgency rise and bubble in his chest, something he'd have blamed on England there and then were it not for the expression on the man's face. England had very, very quickly turned bright red, his face becoming flushed far too fast for it to be a good sign. England's eyes had widened by a tiny fraction, invisible to everyone but those close enough to know him, and he had begun to gasp and pant. North approached slowly, the symptoms looked oh so familiar. England dropped the tea cup he'd been holding, which promptly fell to the deck and smashed. North's fear had been confirmed. One of the ships was sinking.

"England!" stated North, "We 'av to get yer inside!"

"WV!" roared England, "You," he paused for a frantic gulp or air, "Said WV." pausing again for another panicked intake of air, "Which ship?"

"Now's not the time!" snapped North, "We need to get yer inside!"

"WV!" shouted England again, sounding rather like a broken record, "WHICH BLOODY SHIP?"

"HMS _Havok_!" growled North in reply.

England immediately calmed. They were safe. His brothers were safe. HMS _Havok _was safe. He had been unimaginably terrified upon hearing that his two brothers were in Force WV just as one of its ships decided to bump into two German destroyers with less than friendly intentions. That's why he needed to know, and it was such a relief to find out. His brothers were not on the doomed ship. They were safe on HMS _Havok. _It was HMS _Glowworm_ that was in difficulty. Particularly as her boilers had just exploded.

It was for this reason that England was on fire, he could feel the flames licking through his veins. He could hear the metal of the ship screech and scream as she began to fall into the water. England could sense the one hundred and nine men who were dead or dying, who weren't in the water, but who were on the ship as she slowly sank. His heaving continued as his body strained for oxygen that it was receiving in plentiful amounts, he _hated _it when one of his ships sank. It wasn't just the crew that he felt die.

By this point, a small team of utterly hysterical men had run out onto the ship's deck. North and two other men tried to forcibly move England but pulled their hands away with a chorus of sharp hisses. England's skin was as hot as fire, burning with virtually the same intensity. North frowned, there was no way they'd be able to move him like that. So they waited and watched. As soon as the ship sank, he'd be fine. As soon as the ship lay on the ocean bed, he'd be waltzing about and demanding cups of tea left, right and centre.

It wasn't painful. England could feel the ship exploding and burning and sinking, but none of this translated as pain. After all, HMS _Glowworm_ was a ship. She was a thing of mortar and metal, not of flesh and blood. Yes, she was dying but as she was inanimate and could not recognise pain, there was none for England to feel. The only pain he felt was that of the crew, and such pain was short-lived as death quickly overcame them. Then the burning stopped, his skin returning to its normal temperature and paleness as his dear HMS _Glowworm _finally fell beneath the ocean's waves. It wasn't painful, but by God was it unpleasant as Hell.

"Sunk?" asked North, recognising the change.

"Yes."

"Which one?" asked North.

"_Glowworm_," replied England, tidying himself up as he spoke, doing so in a monotone voice, still mentally shaken-up from the loss of one of his destroyers, "One hundred and nine dead, six fatally wounded, thirty four sailors recovered by German forces."

"What now?"

"We join the Home Fleet," sighed England, trying to cover up the slightly breathless whisper that remained from the shock, "_After_ we pick up Scotland and Wales."

Northern Ireland would have been greatly concerned by the fury in England's eyes upon mentioning his siblings' names were he not more concerned for his own safety.

_Operation Wilfred was the name of the operation to mine Norway's waters to prevent merchant ships delivering iron ore to the Germans. The Operation consisted of three Forces, two of which (WV and WS) were laying live mines and the third of which (WB) was laying empty oil drums and warning merchant ships of the mines._

_WS spotted German destroyers and its mission was cancelled. WV lost Glowworm early on as she was sent off to find a man overboard, unfortunately coming across German destroyers in the process. _HMS _Renown, assigned to the same force, was sent to assist Glowworm and encountered German forces the next day. WB consisted of just three ships: two mine laying destroyers and the escorting ship, _HMS _Birmingham. This story is set on _HMS _Birmingham. _

*****_Sod's Law: I believe it can also be called Murphy's Law, it's essentially the universal law that regardless of what you do, crap is unavoidable_

_*Every cloud: shortened version of 'every cloud has a silver lining'_

_*grand: fine, used by my Irish Uncle as an adjective for anything positive (and I mean anything)_


	8. 26th May 2011

**A huge thanks once again to **OMGitsgreen**, **XxX-Curly-Wurly-XxX** and **Korean Boron **for reviewing. **

**To **OMGitsgreen** and **Korean Boron**, I am working on your suggestions, but they may take a while to write and upload (particularly your request **OMGitsgreen**, being as I really need to do it justice), so please bear with me. Thanks. **

**Thanks again to anyone who story alerted or favourited this story, and particularly to those of you (mentioned above) who reviewed. Again, if you have any requests, or just a comment about the stories, please review. **

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_How England and Germany may have reacted with regards to the 'serious academic research' into British v. German manners._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**What Paddington tells us about German v British manners**

**26****th**** May 2011**

Germany waited for Britain inthe airport arrivals lounge.

Whilst their relationship had been on the road to recovery for a great number of years, Germany always felt a silent tug in his gut whenever he met the Englishman. He imagined that Britain probably felt very much the same sensation pulling gently on his stomach whenever they met. The two had reconciled and their political and economic relationships were booming but to say that they had forgotten about the scars left by the war would be an utter lie. Entirely unconsciously, Germany found himself rubbing the elbow joint of his right arm, the vicinity in which Dresden was located.

Germany was still a little touchy about the _Krieg*_. He had more or less begun to get past that, with the vast majority of his youth understanding that, whilst the crimes committed in Germany during WWII were horribly inhumane, these events had happened over sixty years ago, before any of them were born. Germany should never forget his crimes but neither should he feel eternally sick with guilt from them. The world had to move past that, and it would, eventually.

Germany was well aware that Britain lived under the unwritten rule of '_Don't Mention the War_' whenever the two met, which was difficult as several of their meetings happened to be at remembrance ceremonies, which made the rule rather fall flat on its face. However, the Briton generally kept to this rule and the two found it worked quite well. Germany did not want to be reminded of the war and he knew that Britain did not want to have to awkwardly accept apologies.

The German looked up to find the Briton walking towards him with what had begun as a genuine smile, but it quickly turned into a false one, still uncomfortable with the awkward air that sat between them when left alone together. Germany returned much the same smile, observing Britain as he approached. The man had only his hand luggage, a briefcase of sorts, and he was wearing a suit, though his jacket was slung over his arm, as though to create an invisible barrier between him and his fellow European.

"_Guten Morgen*,_" greeted Germany, extending a confident hand, "_Wie geht es Ihnen?*_"

"Please," sighed Britain, accepting the hand and shaking it as though it were more of an unexpected, but pleasant, surprise rather than a custom greeting between two people, "Not so formal. _Sie können Du zu mir sagen*._"

"Okay," replied Germany, suppressing a smile and a brief laugh with all of the effort his body could muster, "But if we are not being formal, why say '_Sie_' to me?"

"Oh," said Britain, "I'm sorry, I hadn't noticed."

"_Natürlich*,_" stated Germany rather sarcastically as he smiled slightly, not believing a word of it. Britain not being aware of something he'd said when talking to Germany? What an incorrigible _Lügner*_, "I'll take your bag."

Germany noticed Britain frown slightly, though the man was clearly doing his very best to hide this. This reaction confused Germany, as he couldn't understand anything he'd said to confuse or offend the Briton. Was he speaking too much German? Was it upsetting his guest? Perhaps he was overanalysing the situation, maybe the Brit just had a headache of some sort, or maybe he just didn't want to be there. Only God could know what that man was thinking, and even then, that was a debatable theory.

Observing that Britain wasn't responding particularly quickly, Germany took the briefcase from him without another word. As Germany did so, he noticed that Britain was frowning. Naturally, Germany failed to understand why Britain could have been frowning. So far as he himself was concerned, he had done nothing to earn such a disapproving and wounded expression, but knowing the Briton as well as he did, a newspaper headline in the distance could have been the source of this frown.

"Come," requested/ordered Germany, "There is a car waiting for us."

Without another word, because it was an unnecessary waste of words to do so, Germany turned away from his guest, with the intention of leading him through the vast and near-sparkling clean airport. The walk wasn't actually very long but Germany had been told in advance that their car may be a few minutes late, and so a slightly roundabout route was required to prevent them waiting outside for the car to arrive, something that would only damage Germany's reputation.

"So," began Britain, for no reason conceivable to the German, "How's the weather been?"

"_Sonig*_," replied Germany, "Why?"

"Oh," responded Britain, "Just curious. It's been raining in London all week; I was hoping I might be able to take some of your nice weather back with me."

"Okay," stated Germany, clearly bemused by the Englishman's declaration, before he mentally noted, _Du bist ein seltsamer Mann, Großbritannien*._

Silence succeeded for only a brief while before the Briton could bear it no longer.

"So, uh," began Britain, "How've you been keeping?"

"Fine." replied Germany.

Silence proceeded until they had reached the exit. They hadn't even passed through it.

"So, where's this meeting again?" asked Britain, despite knowing full well where it was.

"_Hast Du den Brief nicht gelesen?*_" queried the German, "You also arrived three hours early."

"Uh," Britain looked taken aback and deeply offended, though Germany could not understand what he'd said to possibly cause this reaction, "I don't like being late."

"_Ja,_" agreed Germany, as it was clear that this was the case, "But there is such a thing as being too early."

"Oh," Britain, somehow, managed to look even more offended, "I'm sorry. I didn't cause you any problems by arriving early did I?"

"_Nicht wirklich*_," assured Germany, "But it was a bit short notice."

"Oh," began Britain, "I'm sorry."

Germany nodded silently. He had noticed on several other occasions that Britain, once alone and not surrounded by people with whom he could argue, apologised almost incessantly for things that were often benign and harmless. He had, in fact, once bumped into the Englishman as he had been not paying attention to where he was walking and, just as he opened his mouth to apologise for _his _mistake, he found that the Briton had already let out an embarrassed 'oh, sorry!' and walked off. Sure the Brit had an awful lot to apologise for, but he seemed to only give apologies for the things that didn't really require any.

They left the building, which was a rather impressive modern structure by all accounts, as the automatic glass doors swung open heartily to be rid of them. The car which Germany had mentioned previously sat outside, waiting in a bay, perfectly on time and clean as a whistle. It was the standard international government black, and was, rather predictably a German-made car. The car was a very well kept, very nice looking Mercedes-Benz and Germany would have been lying through his teeth, something he didn't really make a habit of, if he had said that he didn't feel a strong degree of pride whenever he saw it.

Germany lead Britain over towards the car and felt his heart flutter with pride as he heard the Englishman whistle appreciatively upon seeing the car. The front passenger seat was left empty as the person who had been sitting in it seconds before got out in order to hold the doors open for the two distinguished guests. Britain was guided towards the back seats whilst Germany carefully placed the Brit's briefcase in the boot, before sitting himself in the back beside the Briton. After belting up, the driver received a curt nod from Germany and the car pulled away with an effortless purr of the engine.

"So, uh," began Britain, clearly physically unable to be silent for longer than five minutes, "This is a nice car you've got. Do you like it?"

"_Ja_," agreed Germany, though he quickly conceded, "My boss has told me to try different German brands* but I prefer _Volkswagen_.*"

"Really?" asked the Englishman, apparently genuinely surprised by the response, "Well, your boss cares more than mine. He gives me an earful whenever he sees me in my Rover.*"

Germany said nothing, though his blue eyes did light up in recognition of the brand. After all, BMW had owned the Rover Group brand for a while, allowing another company to manufacturer cars under the name. In 2005, the MG Rover Group became insolvent and so BMW decided to sell off Rover to Ford, not really wanting all the problems that came with the company. The only thing Germany really remembered about the Rover problems in 2005 was that Britain was _very _unhappy and that he had been lying about how serious the problems really were, claiming that there were 'some difficulties' and 'some small problems'.

"It's been having a couple of small issues lately," added Britain, "I mean, it passed the M.O.T* but the engine blew up in my face last week, and then _Scotland_ tried to fix it, and you can imagine how well _that_ turned out…"

Germany frowned. Britain had done it again. He did it all the time. Britain was an incorrigible liar, throwing lies around in a sentence as often as he blatantly contradicted fact in a sentence. Germany wondered why the Englishman was always so surprised when other people expressed their dislike of him, particularly when he was always so dishonest, so much of the time. Surely, Britain must be aware that he was lying all the time, so why then did he do it? Germany frowned slightly and decided he'd had enough. Today, he would find out why Britain lied so much.

"Why do you lie?" asked Germany.

"What?" the Briton appeared immediately very deeply offended, "Excuse me? When did I lie?"

"Just now," replied Germany, quickly explaining himself to prevent aggravating the Brit further, "You said that your car was 'having a couple of small issues' but then said the engine blew up."

"…" began Britain, "Well it did."

"_Klar,*_" responded Germany, "But an exploding engine is not a 'small issue', it is _ein großes Problem_.*"

"Yes, but I don't see what this has to do with me lying."

"You lied when you said your car had a couple of 'small issues' because the 'issues' were not small," explained Germany, annunciating his words as though speaking to a small, and fairly stupid child, "That is lying."

"It isn't," defended Britain, still visibly offended by Germany's accusation, "It's understatement."

"But why do it?" asked Germany, "It only confuses people and causes delays."

"…" began Britain, silently chewing on his bottom lip, "I don't know. It's just something I do," he seemed to ponder for a second before swivelling around in the leather seat and demanding, in an equally accusatory manner, "What about _you_?"

"What about me?" queried Germany, before adding, "I don't lie."

"No, you don't," agreed Britain, "But you're quite… you can be quite rude."

"Rude?" pressed Germany sardonically, not offended, but significantly perturbed by the statement, "_Erklär mir mal, wieso!_*"

"You're uh… very direct, very straightforward, and, it just seems a little rude at times," explained the Brit, who panicked and provided examples upon seeing that the German was displeased with the answer, "Like earlier. You didn't ask if you could take my bag for me, you just announced that you'd take it and then you snatched it right out of my hand!"

"But I was carrying your bag for you," frowned the German, "Surely that is polite and thoughtful? Why would I need to ask to carry your bag?"

"I don't… it's just…" Britain sighed loudly and smiled weakly, "Maybe it's just a British thing."

Germany looked at the little British man, as there was almost a head in height difference between them, and frowned slightly. Britain had turned in his seat so that he was once again facing forwards. Even from the angle Germany was sitting in, there was a clear sadness in the Englishman's eyes. It was difficult to work out what on Earth could have upset the man. So what if their cultures and behaviour was a little different? They could hardly be expected to behave in exactly the same way, even if they did have an expansive shared history. So, why then, was Britain so upset? It was clear he was, even if there weren't any tears. Germany didn't have the answer, but he did have something that may cheer him up.

"America does it too," stated Germany, distracting himself with the daily life of Berlin that could be seen outside the window, "And Canada, sometimes."

"Really?" said Britain, disbelieving hope crackling in his voice.

"They are not so easily or so often offended," explained Germany, "But they have the same look you did."

Silence descended upon them. Unlike before, it was an amicable silence.

"Thanks."

"_Kein Problem.*_"

Britain felt relieved knowing that Germany was not intentionally rude, just ever so slightly ignorant of how easily offended Britain was by direct, seemingly rude, commands. Equally, Germany was relieved to know that Britain was not lying with the intention of hiding or covering something up, but rather, doing it on some weird, bizarre, British instinct that prevented him from being quite so direct. Britain was not dishonest and Germany was not rude, they were simply different.

_Behavioural experts in Germany and Britain did a whole load of research into the behaviour of their respective peoples. What they found is that, the Germans are very direct and straight forward, tending to ask things like 'Get me the milk, please' where a Brit would probably say 'Could you fetch me the milk, please'. Whilst the British consider this to be good manners, and polite, the Germans (or the researchers anyway) think that this is 'empty verbiage' and that it's simply not necessary, and sometimes even dishonest. You can read the article on the BBC News website, the name of the article is the title of this chapter ('What Paddington tells us about German v British manners')._

*_Krieg: war _

*_Guten Morgen: good morning_

_*Wie geht es Ihnen?: how are you? (the polite form)_

_* Sie können Du zu mir sagen: you can say 'you' to me_

_('Sie' is the polite form of 'you' and 'Du' is the informal form of 'you')_

_* Natürlich: naturally, though here it would probably be more like 'yeah, sure'_

_*Lügner: liar_

_*Sonig: sunny_

_* Du bist ein seltsamer Mann, Großbritannien: you are a strange man, (Great)Britain_

_* Hast Du den Brief nicht gelesen?: didn't you read the letter?_

_*Nicht wirklich: not really_

_*try different German brands: Angela Merkel regularly swaps between the four major German brands, to show neutrality and support for the industry (as opposed to some Bavarian ministers who openly favourite Bavarian brand BMW)_

_*Volkswagen: in italics because the Germans pronounce it correctly, with English speakers mispronouncing the brand all the time (Germans would pronounce it so it sounds more like 'Folksvagen')_

_*sees me in my Rover: only Jaguars, Range Rovers and Land Rovers are used by the British government now _

_*Rover: a British car manufacturer (also known as MG Rover) that became insolvent in 2005 and has had problems pretty much ever since, though things seem to be picking up a bit now that Tata Motors (an Indian company) is investing in it_

_*MOT: the Ministry Of Transport test, it is an annual test on all British vehicles over three years old to prove that they are roadworthy_

_*klar: (here) sure_

_*ein großes Problem: a big problem_

_*erklär mir mal, wieso: the general gist of it is 'explain what you mean'_

_*kein Problem: no problem_


	9. 22nd May 1455

**I'm away for a week now, so I'll be leaving you with this in the meantime. I will be working on all suggestions given to me, so they will make an appearance at some point in the future.**

**Massive thanks to **Tazzilicious**, **Korean Boron **and **HostiUta** for reviewing. And again, if you have any ideas, or would simply wish to comment, please review. Thank you.**

**WARNING:****The dialogue is in Early Modern English (what we would know as Shakespearean English) as it isn't totally incomprehensible (unlike Middle English (Chaucer)). There are 'translations' anyway, but you (hopefully) won't have too much trouble reading it. Quite a few of the bits of dialogue are taken from Shakespeare's Henry VI part 2.**

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_How England may have reacted to the traditional beginning of the Wars of the Roses. _

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**First Battle of St Albans**

**22****nd**** May 1455**

Tragedy is not to be measured nor compared nor judged for anything besides the catastrophe itself. The loss of a father is, to the peoples concerned, one as tragic as the slaughter of a village or the raging inferno that tears down an entire city. For nations this fact is of a truth so raw that it is almost unbearable. Yet they find themselves in accord over one particular subject, whose tragic nature is considered by all to be the very worst that can be visited upon a country. This particular tragedy is, to these things we call nations, the greatest tragedy that not even dissolution nor death can hope to overrule. These foulest of tragedies are known as civil wars and the few nations unfortunate to have experienced one would have, at the time, preferred to have died than allow the unimaginable pain to continue.

England's emerald eyes were entrapped by the distant expanse of land that lay before him beyond the open window. Moving along the horizon, glistening in the faded, early morning sun, were shimmers and shivers of silver slivers, which snaked and slithered over the tiny green hills that undulated beneath them. England had been locked in this little cold cavern of a room and been assured that it was for his safety, for his protection. He was not sure if he should trust his dear King Henry (the sixth of that name to bear such a title*). England was not even very sure that he _could_ trust King Henry VI and after both of those admissions, England was additionally forced to admit that he was not sure if he even wanted to trust the man.

King Henry VI was of the House of Lancaster and had been seated upon the throne of England since 1421. This particular King was an odd man for two reasons. The first was that he was very peaceful and placid and any sort of warfare seemed to greatly traumatise and upset the man*, so much so that violent battles visibly shook him. The second reason, and perhaps the one that made him so very unusual, was his occasional bouts of insanity. During these periods, England found the man to be insufferably difficult to communicate with. The King was, in these occasional slips of sanity, totally and utterly unaware of everything around him. After a mental breakdown in 1453, he had failed to even acknowledge the birth of his son. As such, England found it difficult to place the entirety of his trust in his incumbent King.

"England?" queried a voice from behind the nation, "The King hath sent Buckingham to know the reasons of York's forces.*"

"And thus comes York to claim his right*," sighed England, a tone of sadness intermingling with a distinctive exasperation, "Wilt thou tell my King that I shall _not_ be kept here locked as one manacles a bear?* I desire to be present at _all_ discussions with York."

"I'll do as thou wilt*," stated the messenger, "Though I fear the King will not lend thou his ear*."

England nodded and heard the wooden door close and lock as the messenger departed from the room without a further word. He smiled slightly and continued to gaze out of the window. Though he was unable to count the shimmering armoured creatures on the horizon, England knew there were at least three thousand. Equally, although, England was unable to count the soldiers of the King, of the House of Lancaster, he knew that there were two thousand. He could feel each of the two houses deep in his heart but after all their quarrelling over the years, he could sense himself tearing in two. If there were a fight between the two Houses of Plantagenet* on this day, England knew he would suffer for it; already he could feel his soul being pulled into pieces and such a battle would be the final blow.

England was trapped in a room overlooking what could eventually become the first battlefield of a civil war. One the far side lay York with his army, preparing for battle though greeting heralds with a respectful and conducive mood. Beneath England lay King Henry VI's tent surrounded by his army, representing the House of Lancaster. There were Yorkists* among the general population with an equal proportion of supporters for the King and the House of Lancaster, though these two groups were met by the equally large group of ordinary people who were discontented with both groups for their incessant fighting. Should this near-battle escalate into a civil war, England felt sure that he would be torn apart and that thought terrified him to his very core.

Staring out of the window with an expression so distracted so as to be almost entirely blank and devoid of emotion, England observed a small fast-moving blot moving towards the Yorkist army. It must have been Humphrey of Buckingham*. The white horse that carried the armoured figure certainly seemed to suggest that this was the truth, but from the distance that parted England from the front line, it was impossible to be entirely sure. It took England a full three minutes to realise that his inability to sense Buckingham amongst the Yorkist ranks indicated that the separation was beginning, and that a battle was to take place at St Albans, a city barely twenty two miles north of London. A minute later, when Buckingham returned from the front line with another horse-riding figure, England realised that he could feel neither of them. He could feel neither of the Houses. He could not feel his King.

The panic was instantaneous. His heart fibrillated frantically, thumping so loudly in his chest that he could have sworn he could hear it echoing around the cold room. He was not being torn apart yet but the lack of feeling, the terrifying numbness he felt coursing throughout his entire body told him that he soon would be. Whatever was being demanded by York was not being given by King Henry VI, which would naturally frustrate the leader of the three-thousand-man army, possibly enough for him to start attacking. This would be England's first true civil war and he was already sure that, whilst the losses in battle may be smaller than future and past wars, they would be all the more painful for the fact that they were both of the same country, that some may even be related by blood. The thought of being torn in two and that of losing the ability to sense all his citizens terrified England in a way that could not be described to people who had never felt the exact same fear.

"The King hath agreed*," stated the messenger, who England had not heard enter, "We twain will go into his tent*."

England was perturbed by the ease with which his command had been accepted. King Henry VI was a notably kind man, but, like the vast majority of England's Kings who had inherited England rather than invaded and fought for England, he saw England's personification as a weak and delicate thing to be protected at all costs. It was therefore surprising to hear that King Henry VI was willing to simply allow England into his tent, even as he was preparing to meet with Richard, Duke of York. England's expression of surprise was noticed by the messenger, who seemed to express rather the same sentiment, seemingly also bemused by the King's decision. In fact, despite the evidence provided by the messenger's equally surprised face, England dared to question the man further.

"Upon thine honour*," began England, taking small steps away from the window, "Is this true?"

"Upon mine honour." replied the messenger, his voice trembling with as much surprise as nervousness.

"Good," acknowledged England, not sure how else to respond to the news, before walking towards the messenger and the held-open door, adding cautiously, "He is not in one of his… uh…."

"No, Sir," replied the man assuredly, "He is in good health."

"Even better," sighed England, happy of the news, "Shalt thou lead on?*"

The messenger, who was different to the one England had met with just a few days previously, as the latter had undoubtedly befallen some tragic accident, was a young man no older than seventeen. He was most likely the squire of some knight, ordered to be King Henry's messenger boy, as the King himself had been repeatedly advised against meeting with England by himself. England did not hold a great deal of respect for these advisors, and as the post of 'messenger for England' had not ever been created, England quite often found himself pestered or disturbed by a new face, who was a complete stranger to him. As such, England did not bother to ask for the young lad's name, aware that he may very well be dead before they next met, such was the fate of the young men.

"Forgive me, Sir," began the messenger as he lead England along a bare, cold corridor, "But I was told that thou art England*, our beautiful land, and-"

"It is strange," interrupted England, knowing how the sentence would likely end, "But, aye, it is true."

"Dost thou know me?*" asked the messenger, "Knowest thou all thine citizens?*"

"Aye, Adam."

The messenger stopped abruptly and spun on his heels. His eyes were wide with disbelief and his mouth parted a small way, as though wishing, but unable, to say something in response. England smiled softly. Everyone did that. He, like every other nation in the world, knew everyone of his citizens; he could name each and every one of them, if so required. However, England had given himself limitations in this regard. He thought it rude and boastful and _inherently wrong _to march about and announce the names of his citizens. It was simply rude, and so, despite immediately knowing the name of every English-born person who greeted him, he did not use their name unless that person had personally given him their name. The messenger was an exception, as England only stated his name to prove his point.

"Thou knowest mine name!*" asked Adam, the messenger, his face alight with deep and profound pride, "Thou _art _England… but thou art so few in years.*"

England smiled. It was true. England appeared no older than eighteen years of age. His body was at that uncomfortable cusp where his body was nearly fully grown, his voice having fallen octave after octave, though occasionally still ringing out like that of a child when under too much stress. He was not madly tall, but certainly of average height for the time in which he lived. England wore the clothing fashionable at the time, which had heavy Italian influences. Adam, the young messenger, remarked that England looked quite noble in his garb and would have thought him an easy target for attack, were it not for the many weapons that adorned the Englishman, hidden almost entirely by the long sweeping black cloak that clung around his shoulders.

"A child in years," replied England with a sad smile, "But too soon made old by experience.*"

"Wilt thou be well if a battle here can not be amended?*" asked Adam, continuing to guide England along the corridor, turning his back as though afraid of asking the question directly to his nation's face, "When thou knowest all of thine citizens then it shall sure hurt to see them quarrel amongst themselves.*"

"If a battle here commences," sighed England, "Then I know not what will become of me. No longer can I feel the Yorkists gathering distantly and no more can I feel the King and his House of Lancaster. Even thine name begins to escape me."

"Being thine humble servant," assured Adam, never turning around once as he walked down a sharply, twisting staircase that seemed to bear no conceivable end, "I shall not abandon what remains of thee after this day.*"

"I thank thee with all mine heart, Adam."

_Later in the King's tent…_

"Then," began King Henry VI, looking burdened and tired and wracked with worry as he sat in his large wooden chair, cushioned by thick, soft rolls of material, "What intends these forces thou dost bring?*"

King Henry VI was seated behind a large oak desk, whose vast size would have seemed unnecessary were it not almost entirely obscured by scribbled paper and spilled black ink. The King, though comfortable in his chair, was evidently distressed and whilst his one hand was free to gesticulate, his other clasped the handle of his sword in a grip so powerful so as to entirely whiten the fist. Only the intricate golden necklace that hung over his clothing and the thick signet rings upon his soft fingers indicated that he were the King, as he wore no crown upon his head, but, rather, a black hat of which he was quite fond. There was no authoritative, tyrannical gleam in his eye, but a soft, gentle kindness which seemed wholesomely out of place given the negotiations and the subject matter at hand. King Henry VI, with his long, ever so slightly chubby face simply was not one for war.

Opposite the incumbent King stood Richard, the third Duke of York. The man was difficult to read, though his hatred of Somerset could not have been more apparent without being a physical force. York's distaste of Edmund Beaufort, the second Duke of Somerset, had lead to Somerset's imprisonment in the Tower of London. King Henry VI's lucidity had caused him to reverse this decision, clearly angering Richard of York. Henry's even more questionable decision to give Somerset favour and the Captaincy of Calais seemed to be the final straw. York had marched on St Albans with a strong, trained army and the King had frantically thrown together a force to meet him that, even England could tell, was inferior. To prevent a battle, it was fast becoming obvious that Somerset would be the forfeit.

"To heave the traitor Somerset from hence.*" stated York, resolute in his demand.

_!_

"Hah-ahn." gasped England.

Everyone present had their attention sharply driven towards their nation by his apparently pained gasp. His eyes were tightly shut, eyelids driven forcefully together by a very deep frown. The Englishman's lips were pursed, stretched thinly though it was clear that his teeth were clamping down upon the insides of his lips. By his side, though partly obscured by his black cloak, were clenched, balled fists and the group regarded with heavy concern as small droplets of bright red blood trickled from the centre of the palm and pooled on the floor below. Everyone present knew who the Englishman was, and became immediately worried at this latest development. Had something happened? Had another nation attacked _again_?

"England?"

_ThumThumThumThumThumThum!_

A weakened growl emanated from the Englishman's throat but no other response was received. England doubled over as the pain inside him swelled and grew, becoming uncomfortably tight and scalding and burning. He briefly flashed his bright green eyes open, only to see three different images and instantaneously shut them, confused and terrified by the different perspectives his nerves had relayed to him. He moved his hands without thinking, using them to clutch his chest, hugging himself as the exploding pain inside his chest continued to erupt and combust, scorching and searing the ends of every single nerve in his body, setting him alight with a pain made all the crueller for England's ability to comprehend precisely what it was and precisely what was happening to him.

"England!"

_ThuThuThuThuThuThu!_

His heart felt like it was going to explode inside his chest. There was nothing wrong with London, though he felt sure that the pain would be less traumatic if it was. His heart was trying to beat to three different rhythms at the same time and it was driving him to the point of madness with the pain it caused. His soul was being split and divided into three separate entities, of which two would be ghost-like figures, bodiless and ethereal with no desire beyond destroying their polar opposite and taking over England, taking his body and soul. England could feel this happening inside him and there was nothing anybody could do to help. It was too late and the damage had already been done and there would be no hope of relief.

England was vaguely aware of some whispered message to Buckingham, who vanished off beyond the confines of the tent. Too wrapped up in his own suffering to either acknowledge this or respond to it, England continued to gasp and pant silently to himself, feeling his heart thrumming faster and faster as it tried to make three separate beats fall into one against their wills. Feeling a heavy hand on his shoulder, England attempted to look up. Though his head was swimming and his eyes were blurry with unreleased tears, he could make out the concerned expression of Richard, Duke of York and Adam who stood behind him. King Henry VI had only just stood up and was making his way over when everyone's attention was harshly snapped away from the suffering nation.

"For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head*," came a distant, but familiar shout that rose with volume as its owner entered the tent, "But boldly stand and front him to his face.*"

There was a small silence as the group watched the new arrivals. England peered upwards through his haze of pain to observe them, no longer able to sense them in his heart or mind or soul. His frown only deepened and pain only resurfaced with a greater and more determined vigour as Queen Margaret of Anjou and Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset entered the tent. The tension in the air was thicker than anything England had ever known and he wanted to choke on it, preferably choke to death on it; he would give anything to stop the further escalation of his pain. Somerset's presence in the King's tent had significantly worsened the pain and it seemed that a division was now something far more solid and real than a mere inevitability.

"How now!*" yelled York, seething and spitting with every word that left his mouth, "Is Somerset at liberty?* Shall I endure the sight of Somerset?* False King!"

England choked and spluttered as the words grew in their intensity and aggression, causing the pain to spike in his chest and the feeling of division to grow and grow.

"Why hast thou broken faith with me, knowing how hardly I can brook abuse?*" snapped York, gesticulating wildly at the King with one hand as his other tightened threateningly around the handle of his sword, "King I call thee?* No, thou art _not _King, not fit to govern and rule multitudes!*"

England wanted to scream, not caring how unbecoming it was, not caring what sort of impression it might leave with the nobles present. It hurt so very badly and for some reason, he felt as though screaming out to the world might somehow relieve some of the pressure. Despite this, he did not scream out, nor yell out, able only to groan and whimper quietly beneath York's deafening roaring, which had captivated entirely the attention of the room. Only Adam, the kind, young messenger, continued to notice England's ongoing and escalating violent pain and even then, dear Adam had not a clue in the world about how he ought to help the near-crying nation. There were no wounds to be treated, nor words of comfort to be given. There was nothing to be done, save to wait until the worst had passed.

"That head of thine doth not become a crown*," hissed York, the harsh tone and aggression in his voice causing the entire room to pause in surprise, "Thy hand is made to grasp a _palmer's _staff, and not to grace an awful princely sceptre.*"

England panted and panted and coughed and heaved silently as the pain peaked.

"That gold must round engrit _these _brows of _mine_,*" roared York, pointing towards his own head before holding up both of his hands to the air and loudly proclaiming, "Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up and with the same to act controlling laws.*"

"Monstrous traitor!" roared Somerset, visibly shaking with rage, "I arrest thee, York, of capital treason 'gainst the King and Crown*-"

"ARGH!" was the cry that plunged England into the darkness of unconsciousness.

_Three minutes later…_

England had never felt so empty in all his life as he slowly stirred awake. Physically he felt fine, but he could feel in every cell of his body that something was inextricably, indescribably _wrong_. His frame _shook _from the overwhelming strength of the sense of _wrongness _that pervaded every single fibre of his body and soul and mind. When his eyes, though blurry and bleary from waking up and, apparently, tears, finally widened enough to make out the shapes in the room, he began to realise just why he had this feeling. Having been placed on King Henry VI's desk, paper having been viciously shoved to the sides for the sudden need, England was able to view every member of the room peering over him, concerned greatly for his wellbeing and safety.

It was a few seconds after his eyesight had entirely recovered that England could pinpoint exactly what was responsible for the totally overwhelming feeling of wrongness. The feeling was overbearing to the point where England wanted nothing more than to run away as fast as his legs could carry him; he would do anything to put the largest distance possible between himself and that horrible, horrible feeling that was inescapable and suffocating with its all-encompassing presence. England wanted to blame the two new arrivals to the room for the feeling of wrongness, and, whilst they were partly to blame, they were simply the manifestations of the wills of humans, who were the true parties responsible for the feeling of _wrong_.

"Oh! Hearst thou the morning lark, _my_ sweet love?*"

"_My _sweet chuck* will not hear the lark if it art thou who first hearst it.*"

England stared up in utter horror. It was so wrong, so very, very wrong. Two ghostly, almost translucent figures stood over him and he knew immediately who they were and what this meant. He leapt from the table with the same vigour one would see a cornered cat attack its assailant, knocking aside any who would dare try and return him to it. With two feet on the ground, he slowly backed away, until the soft threads of the tent were all that stood between him and freedom. He could see the entire group and glared at them with an expression that indicated fear and horror more than it displayed any sort of threat to the wellbeing of the group should they venture forwards in any way. The two translucent ghosts approached and England immediately, without hesitation or thought, drew his sword and glowered at them.

"Put up thine sword*," cooed the first, "_My _sweet love."

"I intend thee no harm*," purred the second, "_My _sweet chuck."

"SILENCE!"

The room was silenced by the English nation, though it had been quiet before were it not for the efforts of the two new arrivals. England took this opportunity to look at them and assure himself of the true reality of his situation, for a part of him was yet willing to believe the entire thing an elaborate dream. They were both virtual mirror images of himself, save for a few alterations here and there. It was utterly terrifying seeing them, ghostly, ethereal twins, identical to himself though so very different in so many different ways.

The first to speak had the same blonde hair, ruffled and unkempt, and the same distinctive eyebrows, as well as the same build and height. However, where England's eyes were a startling and soft green, this ghostly form's eyes were white: as white and empty as the snow that occasionally dusted his country in the cold, wintery months. The ghost's smile was angry and possessive and there was a noticeably callous edge to it. The man's clothes were blanched white, though occasional dustings of yellow made them seem a light cream. The cloak, fluttering slightly from a light wind that drifted in from beneath the material walls of the tent, was a white of perfect purity. Swords and bows and daggers glistened in the light, indicating that the ghost was very well armed.

The second ghost to have spoken carried the very same features in common with England as the first, boasting the same blonde hair, the same eyebrows and identical build and height. Indeed, the only differences in this ghost were to be seen in the same area as that of the first. This second ghost had eyes as red and threatening as blood, though they reminded England of the red roses he had so often seen in the countryside. Similarly to the first ghost, this second ghost had a smile as possessive and terrifying as the first though the smile had a softer, calmer edge than that of the former. This ghost's clothes were painted red, though darker shades seemed almost stained brown, and the man's cloak was a vibrant red that matched perfectly the red of his eyes. Again, much like the first translucent man, this second apparition was armed to the teeth.

"I am England," hissed England aggressively, still clutching his sword, "And I am not yours! Tell me who you* are!"

"I," began the first, displaying his left palm, "Am the House of York."

"And I," replied the second, displaying his right palm, "Am the House of Lancaster."

England stared at the individual palms of the two ghosts. The House of York sported, in his left palm, a vivid tattoo which sat upon his skin like a painted portrait, though, at the same time, seemed to be etched into the skin and impossible to remove. This tattoo was that of a white rose*. The House of Lancaster sported a tattoo-like image of a similar nature, though it was that of a red rose* and it was to be found in his right palm, as opposed to the House of York's. England stared at the palms for what felt like a lifetime. The truth hit him like a tonne of bricks.

These two ghosts represented the supporters of York and Lancaster respectively and they were both vying for control of England. England, the only one of the three with corporeal form, represented the landmass of England and the remaining inhabitants who felt no strong loyalty to one cause or the other. However, should these remaining, independent inhabitants diminish to a significant degree, England would be nothing but a body: a lifeless, soulless shell representing nothing other than the landmass of England and no longer the people. England felt sick to his very bones. His soul had been torn in three and, whilst he would not feel the death of York loyalists or Lancaster loyalists, the scars received by his land as a result of the fighting would sit upon his pale skin and the deaths of the remaining citizens would be felt by him. It was so _so _very wrong.

"No, no," whispered England, feeling distress well up as tears in his eyes, "This can not be, this can _not _be!" his eyes turned sharply onto Richard, Duke of York and King Henry VI and he loudly demanded, "What have you done to me? What have you _done_ to me?"

"_My _sweet chuck," cooed the House of Lancaster as he approached with two open hands, with two open palms, "Into mine arms and I shall protect thee.*"

"Temper thine mad blood*," whispered the House of York, approaching in the same way, "_My sweet _love."

"TAKE YOUR FACES HENCE!*" screamed England, as furious as he was utterly terrified. When neither of them moved, he yelled a deafening, "GO!"

The two Houses were escorted out of the tent by Somerset and York who were discussing the battle that would take place shortly between them*, and that would become known as the First Battle of St Albans*. To the distress of England himself, neither of the Houses could leave in silence, as the two continued to lavish him with compliments and promises and endearments and affections*. Once the two had gone, England's knees gave beneath him and he collapsed to the floor. Only Adam, who had sworn nearly twenty minutes ago that he would protect his nation, moved forward to comfort the English nation who wept silently, abandoning his sword to cover this tears with both of his hands and save face.

Thus, the Wars of the Roses began.

_Next to the Civil War in which supporters of Parliament were fighting forces loyal to King Charles I, the Wars of the Roses are an incredibly famous civil war. It had probably more of a lasting influence on England than the 'proper' Civil War, as the rose is one of our most famous national symbols and Lancashire and Yorkshire continue to have (friendly) rivalries._

*_the sixth of that name to bear such a title: by 1421, there had already been five Kings of England with the name Henry, in total there have been eight King Henry's, the famous King Henry VIII being the last (as of 2011)_

*_warfare seemed to greatly traumatise and upset the man: King Henry VI had a mental breakdown after his loss at Bordeaux in 1453 and many of his 'bouts of insanity' seemed to occur after major military defeats_

*_the King hath sent Buckingham to know the reasons of York's forces: the King has sent the Duke of Buckingham to know why the Duke of York has brought an army_

_*and thus comes York to claim his right: and so comes York to claim his right as heir to the throne_

_*wilt_ _thou tell my King that I shall not be kept here locked as one manacles a bear: will you tell my King that I won't be kept locked up in here like you'd chain a bear_

_*I'll do as thou wilt: I'll do as you will_

_*though I fear the King will not lend thou his ear: though I don't think the King will listen_

_*Houses of Plantagenet: the House of York and the House of Lancaster were both branches of this House and the two were fighting petty battles before the First Battle of St Albans, though that particular battle is the 'official' start of the Wars of the Roses_

_*Yorkist: supporter of the Duke of York and/or the House of York_

_*Humphrey of Buckingham: dukes and earls were frequently referred to by their dukedom or earldom, so Humphrey is known as Buckingham and Richard is frequently referred to as York_

_*the King hath agreed: the King's agreed_

_*we twain will go into his tent: us two will go to his tent_

_*upon thine/mine honour: essentially asking someone to swear on their honour/life that what they're saying is true_

_*shalt thou lead on: shall you lead on_

_*I was told that thou art England: I was told that you're England_

_*dost thou know me: do you know me_

_*knowest thou all thine citizens: do you know all your citizens_

_*thou knowest mine name: you know my name_

_*thou art England… but thou art so few in years: you are England… but you're so young_

_*a child in years but too soon made old by experience: young in years but wise by experience_

_*wilt thou be well if a battle here can not be amended: will you be alright if a battle can't be avoided_

_*when thou knowest all of thine citizens then it shall sure hurt to see them quarrel amongst themselves: when you know all your citizens then it must hurt to see them fighting each other_

_*being thine humble servant, I shall not abandon what remains of thee after this day: as your humble servant, I won't abandon whatever's left of you after this battle_

_*then what intends these forces thou dost bring: then what do you mean to do with this army_

_*to heave the traitor Somerset from hence: to remove the traitor Somerset from here_

_*for thousand Yorks he will not hide his head: he wouldn't hide his head from a thousand Yorks_

_*but boldly stand and front him to his face: but boldly stand in front of him, to his face_

_*how now: essentially an equivalent of 'what the hell!'_

_*is Somerset at liberty: is Somerset free_

_*shall I endure the sight of Somerset: do I have to look at Somerset_

_*why hast thou broken faith with me, knowing how hardly I can brook abuse: why have you broken my trust, when you know how I can hardly take abuse_

_*King I call thee: I call you King_

_*no, thou art not King, not fit to govern and rule multitudes: no, you're not King, not fit to govern over and rule the masses_

_*that head of thine doth not become a crown: your head doesn't suit a crown, a crown doesn't look good on your head_

_*thy hand is made to grasp a palmer's staff, and not to grace an awful princely sceptre: your hand was made to hold a working man's staff, not to touch such a terribly holy sceptre_

_*that gold must round engrit these brows of mine: that gold (that crown) must sit on my head_

_*here is a hand to hold a sceptre up and with the same to act controlling laws: here's a hand (worthy) to hold up that sceptre and make laws and govern_

_*I_ _arrest thee, York, of capital treason 'gainst the King and Crown: I'm arresting you for treason against the King_

_*hearst thou the morning lark: the general gist is along the lines of 'good morning, sleepy head'_

_*my sweet chuck: my sweet chick, chuck is simply an archaic form of chicken or chick, which is still used as a term of affection today_

_*will not hear the lark if it art thou who first hearst it: (he) won't hear the lark if you're the one who hears it first_

_*put up thine sword: sheathe your sword_

_*I intend thee no harm: I'm not going to hurt you_

_*you: was used as a plural form (referring to multiple people) or as the singular formal (which exists in German as 'Sie' and French as 'Vous' and many other languages as well), 'thou' was the singular informal (like 'du' in German and 'tu' in French)_

_*white rose: referring to the white rose, which is the symbol for York_

_*red rose: referring to the red rose, which is the symbol for Lancaster_

_*into mine arms and I shall protect thee: come into my arms and I'll protect you_

_*temper thine mad blood: calm down_

_*take your faces hence: essentially 'go away' or 'get the bloody hell away from me'_

_*discussing the battle that would take place shortly between them: bizarre as it seems, the leaders of armies would often meet in the middle and discuss the time when the battle would start _

_*First Battle of St Albans: so named because there were two_

_*the two continued to lavish him with compliments and promises and endearments and affections: I can see both of the Houses trying to win England's affection, as public support would make life much easier for them, which is why the two Houses are so damn creepy_


	10. 26th May 2006

**Thanks to **xMaddie**, **OMGitsgreen**, **Korean Boron**, **HoshiUta** and **Tazzilicious **for reviewing, it really does make a difference.**

**I am working on all requests, and this is just a little upbeat chapter too contrast with the Wars of the Roses chapter before.**

**Again, reviews are deeply appreciated and requests give me a good idea of what to cover (English/British history is bloody huge, specificity helps a lot). Thank you once again, and enjoy.**

_A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title._

_How England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland may have reacted to this (quite amusing) piece of news._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**British men catch up in the crying game**

**26****th**** May 2006**

England was very _very _glad that he was at home.

Were he anywhere else, he would have died of embarrassment then and there.

_~ When you're sure you've had enough, of this life, well hang on ~*_

It was in moments like these that he was eternally grateful that no one had yet managed to miniaturise (with any great effect) the surround sound system. Many phones and mp3 and mp4 players had claimed to be able to do this, though England had found that the vast majority of them were lying through their teeth whilst making such elaborate falsehoods. The truth was, to the shame of the music industry, vinyl played at home on personal surround sound systems sounded a million times better than the tinny crap most modern music players produced.

_~ Don't let yourself go, 'cause everybody cries, and everybody hurts, sometimes ~_

England felt his body heave upwards and downwards, shuddering and shaking violently as though each breath were to be his very last. He was silent, for the most part, though occasionally, his head was thrown back and his throat issued a small, suffering wail, though this was quiet enough to be dismissed as a misheard whistling of the wind. Aside from these rare expressions of grief, he was mostly silent, audible only for these tiny little pants, which were there only as breathing would otherwise be a pure and simple impossibility.

_~ Sometimes everything is wrong, now it's time to sing along ~_

England didn't cry often. Or, at least, that's how it seemed to other nations. They had only seen him cry on a few occasions, and even then, to many of them, it was not what they would actually describe as 'crying' or, for that matter, what they would even describe as 'weeping'. The teary, silent jerks of the Englishman were almost impossible to identify as a form of grief, so restrained and controlled they seemed. Some of the nations even recall watching the Englishman's lip tremble and quiver whilst his eyes, teared up to the point of blindness, simply refused to release at all. It was as though he considered crying to be some sort of crime.

_~ When your day is night alone, hold on, hold on, and you feel like letting go ~_

R.E.M's 'Everybody Hurts' was a very emotional song that did a pretty good job of setting the Englishman off. It was one of ten songs, all of which had been (stupidly) placed on a single CD for his listening pleasure, which was able to turn the 'stiff-upper-lip' gentlemen into a blubbering, heaving, whimpering mess. The thing was though, England sort of enjoyed these crying sessions. He didn't really mind crying when there was (literally) not a living soul to see him do it. He'd never admit to this of course, and he certainly would never seek comfort from anyone: that's what cushions were for, obviously.

_~ When you think you've had too much, of this life, well hang on ~_

There was another thing about crying and 'drowning one's sorrow' that required the presence of singing, or at least in England's case, though Wales had assured him once that his was a unique case. Even though singing almost always sounds bloody awful when done through a mucus-filled, phlegm-y throat, this did not even pass England's mind. He was teary and upset and he was not going to _not _sing on the basis that it _might _sound a little bit bloody terrible. After all, he sang when completely and utterly pissed, and anything could be better than the tuneless noise that echoed out of his mouth when drunk.

"_~ 'Cause everybody hurts! Take comfort in your friends… everybody hurts ~_" sang England, who didn't care how loud he was, "_~ Don't throw your hand! Ooooooh, no! Don't thro-how your ha-ah-and! If you feel like you're alone… No! No! No! You're not alone! ~_"

The music paused briefly.

"SHUT TH' FUCK UP, YE BLUDY SASSENACH TOSSER!" screamed a familiar voice from the room next door, "AH'M TRYIN' TO WATCH SOMETHIN' IN HERE!"

What in the Name of God was Scotland doing in his house? Okay, yes, Scotland was part of the Union and had every right to be there, but Scotland had become a bit of a rare sight since he'd been given his own Parliament. Aside from that, every time Scotland was in England's house, something was normally broken, smashed or knocked unconscious (the latter only ever in reference to England himself). Deciding to investigate what exactly Scotland's presence in his house entailed on this particular occasion, England got up from his lounging position in his armchair and turned the music off.

Walking purposefully towards the heavy wooden door which sat between the two rooms, England briefly wondered what part of this mission of his was a good idea. The more he pondered this question, the less of a good idea his mission began to seem. The facts were these: England had been crying, England's face was all puffy from said crying, England would appear weak from said puffiness caused by aforementioned crying, and Scotland was clearly angry about his programme being interrupted. Weak looking England (caused by the crying) plus an annoyed Scotland? This could only result in bad things.

Ignoring this astute observation, England gently placed his hand over the golden door knob and sighed just as delicately. If there was one thing that would greatly increase his chances of being beaten up by his older brother, charging in guns blazing was certainly on that list. Slowly forcing the bottom of the door against the blood red carpet, England held his breath, feeling his heart thump ever more frantically in his chest as he did so. What greeted him within the other room, however, was not something he had been expecting to find. For one of the rare moments in his life, England was actually, genuinely surprised by what his eyes gazed upon.

"Sc… Scotland?"

"Whit the bludy hell ur ye doin' in here!"

"Is that-"

"Nae! It isnae whit ye think! It isnae whit it looks like!"

"It is, isn't it?"

"Nae! Nae it isnae!"

"Are you watching _Babe_?*"

"Nae!"

England's mouth was agape from the shock. He hadn't really known what he was expecting to see when he walked in, perhaps a slightly biased documentary produced entirely by a Scottish company about how bloody fantastic William Wallace was and how utterly diabolical and evil the English are (not were: no matter how much England had changed, very few nations seemed able to believe in this change). He certainly had not been expecting what he had actually found himself walking into. Least of all because Scotland was supposed to be the hardest and meanest of the lot of them, so, needless to say, this entire scene before him came as a bit of a surprise.

The room was dimly lit, and the small dimensions of the room served to make this darkness cosy and comfortable against the glaring white light beaming in from England's library-office-music studio. This little room was the film room, or the TV room, or the hiding room. It was dominated by a wide screen television that literally covered the one wall. Directly opposite was a well-loved sofa that proceeded to try and swallow anyone who dared to sit in it. A group of five could comfortably sit on the sofa but an equally abused beanbag sat in the centre of the room, separating the massive television screen from the only other piece of furniture in the room.

England was not surprised to see the room in this state: with the light off, a film playing and someone being half engulfed by the settee. That particular scenario was not uncommon at all. What was unusual, however, was the film, the man and the state of the man watching the film. England knew immediately that the DVD playing was _Babe_; he had watched the film enough times himself to be able to recognise it from a still frame. The fact that _Babe _was playing was out of place only because the person watching it was Scotland, who had, in the past, openly ridiculed England's particular fondness of said film.

However, by far, the most uncanny thing England would ever see, was Scotland crying. It was just wrong. Scotland crying? It was like that time he had seen Russia scared: it was just plain wrong. Yet, there he was, standing before a puffy-eyed, red-faced, teary, embarrassed-looking Scotland. Then, he reminded himself that Scotland was doing much the same thing, because England was equally as distressed and teary from his crying session. Thus, the two teary-eyed nations stared at each other, as upset and humiliated as each other.

"Were ye listenin' to 'Everybody Hurts'?"

"Among others."

An awkward silence descended upon them.

"Do ye, uh, want to watch _Babe _an all?"

"Yes, please."

_Some time later…_

"ENGLAND!" screamed Wales, pounding on the door, "_LLOEGR_!*"

Wales punched the door with a usually severely restrained strength. Both he and Northern Ireland had lost their keys. Whilst Northern Ireland was fairly sure that the Republic of Ireland had stolen his key, Wales didn't have any sort of clue at all, and, surprisingly, didn't even try to pin the blame on his dragon. Thus, as neither of them had their key and England had refused to hide spare keys outside anymore, they were left standing outside in the doorway. It wouldn't have been quite so bad, if it hadn't been raining, which, unfortunately, it was.

"Yer know 'e's not gonna answer, right?" asked Northern Ireland, amused slightly by Wales's attack on the door, "I 'aven't 'eard a bleedin' word from them all feckin' day an' bein' as it's the two of them together, I wouldn't be gobsmacked* if one of 'em was dead."

Wales snapped his head to the side. His face, as it was no longer staring at the door, softened significantly and released a sort of unsurprised, sceptical expression. Wales snorted and turned back to the door, attacking it once again with his right fist. Northern Ireland had made a frankly ridiculous statement. If nations were actually able to die as easily as that, perhaps he would have had a point, but the truth was that neither Scotland or England would ever go that far. Besides, even if one of them were dead, what excuse did the living one have for not answering the bloody door?

"LET US IN!" shouted Wales again, shouting because he was slightly annoyed, but mostly because whatever the two were doing in there, it was probably quite noisy, "SCOTLAND! ENGLAND!"

Wales thumped the door with both of his forearms before sighing loudly and giving up. He turned and looked at Northern Ireland who had a vicious grin on his face. The grin was a familial trait shared by all of the brothers, including their independent brother, the Republic of Ireland. Northern Ireland, Wales noted, must therefore have some horrible, evil plan prepared that would enable them access into the England's house. Wales looked to the door, and then to North's violent gaze, which was entirely directed at the door in question. Wales sighed and nodding, stepped away, aware that England would be very unhappy with the state his door would be in a few seconds later.

"Yer see?" asked North, his evil scheming face disconcertingly worrying, before he made his way over to the door and added, "Now you're usin' yer noggin.*"

Northern Ireland raised his leg. With an almost effortless kick, the flat of his foot connected with the door, tearing it off from the lock. It swung open haphazardly, its first hinge having been ripped from the frame holding it in place. With a missing hinge, the door moved without guidance and smashed into a wall after completing a one hundred and eighty degree spin. Slamming into this wall with a deafening, echoing crash of wood, a slight thud was made followed by a distinctive and familiar smashing sound. There went another frame.

North walked in, completely unfazed by the destructive force he had just dolled out to the door. If there was one thing to be said about the UK brothers, it was that their violence towards doors was unparalleled. Between them, on one particularly memorable occasion, they had successfully managed to destroy every single door in a hotel. That in itself was only made impressive by the fact that the hotel consisted of over fifty floors and well over two hundred individual rooms. Half of England's income was dedicated towards fixing up his house, which, thanks to the efforts of himself and his brothers, was virtually always semi-dilapidated.

Following a short few seconds behind, Wales sighed briefly at the unnecessary harm which the door had come to once again. The sigh wasn't directed at North, as perhaps it should have been, rather, it was directed at England. After all, if he didn't insist on locking the door all the time, they wouldn't have had to go to such extreme measures to gain entrance. Whilst England would certainly have incited their inability to remember their keys as a response, such a comment would go entirely unnoticed by his brothers as they didn't really care much for his opinion at the best of times.

"Where in the name of all that's gran' an' 'oly 'av they got ter?" asked Northern Ireland, having glanced around briefly and not seen them, "If they're not millin' about* in the kitchen or 'ere in the front room then they must be-"

Suddenly, they heard a loud wail. They recognised it instantly. England wasn't known for crying very often and even when he did, he was rarely _that _loud. The two siblings, despite their constant claims of disliking the Englishman, were immediately concerned. They knew for a fact that Scotland was also in the house and whilst fighting amongst the Isles was nowhere near as bad as it used to be, they were all pretty well known for being able to harbour ancient grudges, and it just so happened that Scotland was by far the worst for this particular habit.

Without wasting another second, or waiting for another wailing howl, the pair set off at a speedy sprint. Turning right into England's study at the bottom of the hallway, they paused. The wail had definitely come from the study, or at the very least, from one of the two rooms that lay within the study. They waited for another sound, another indication that would perhaps lead them to the problem. They found, to their slight relief, that they didn't have to wait all that long until a familiar, albeit significantly rarer, wail sounded out. Their heads snapped around to the door that had muffled the wail and the Celtic nations charged towards it.

BANG! Swing! THUD!

"_That'll do, pig… that'll do._"

Wales and Northern Ireland were silenced by their own surprise. England and Scotland were crying. Not only that, but they were sitting beside each other and crying, apparently only just becoming aware of their brothers' entrance. Turning their tear-strained faces, England and Scotland looked up at their fellow siblings, whose surprise prevented any immediately mocking statements.

"Uh…"

"Um…"

"You know," began England, "This isn't what it looks like."

"You're a pair of wusses*," explained Wales simply, "You really are."

_Basically, this is in response to an article I found. The article's survey claimed (among other things) that 29% of Englishmen have admitted to crying over soppy tunes and that 52% of Scotsmen have admitted to crying over movies and TV programmes. What the articles went on to say was that the South of England and Wales were the tough nuts as 55% claimed to have cried over a year ago. _

_Therefore, for this story, Scotland and England were crying. For this to be as funny as I thought it could be in my head, Wales and Northern Ireland needed to be the tough nuts and walk in on their two brothers crying like babies at the ending of Babe. _

*_Everybody Hurts was ranked number one in a survey of what songs make grown British men cry conducted by a UK organisation known as PRS for Music_

_*are you watching Babe: Babe was one of twenty films listed on the BBC's 'twenty films that make men cry' list_

*_Lloegr: England_

_*be gobsmacked: be surprised, caught off guard_

_*noggin: head_

_*millin' about: to wander about, to be somewhere_

_*wusses: plural of wuss meaning wimp or crybaby or pushover _


	11. 11th September 2001

**Thanks to **OMGitsgreen**, **Tazzilicious**, **Korean Boron**, **ThE-faInTinG-faNGirl**, **HoshiUta **and **The Beatles Sherlock Holmes Fa** for your wonderful reviews.**

**At the request of **OMGitsgreen**, who may also take massive credit for proof-reading this before its publication here.**

**It is, as you may guess, a very sombre piece, but the next three chapters will be upbeat.**

_How England and America may have reacted to 9/11._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**America's Day of Terror**

**11****th**** September 2001**

_Eastern Daylight Time_

_08:30am_

America laughed loudly and boisterously in that bizarre mixture of a laugh that was somehow wonderfully endearing and frightfully irritating all at the same time. He couldn't help it. He was a naturally happy person most of the time anyway, but being surrounded by young Americans* such as the children around him did nothing besides dramatically increase this sensation of cheerfulness. America had always liked children: it was a nation thing, but being surrounded by them really brought it home just how much he enjoyed their company. He loved watching their little faces light up and their voices were like golden silk when they chuckled or giggled or snorted (unattractive as it sounds). Simply, he could sit there all day just _listening _to them.

They had, he observed briefly, a pretty amusing habit of asking seemingly silly questions almost all of the time. He'd told them point blank who, or rather, what he was and the questions hadn't stopped pouring in since the second the statement left his mouth. With the teacher in the room, the act of announcing his true status as the anthropomorphic personification of their country might have seemed like an incredibly stupid thing to do, but, truth be told, the teacher thought he was simply humouring the young children and that this was some 'role-play' thing that the buffs back in D.C. had concocted. Aside from that, the American people had a thing for role-playing people, like the George Washington at Mount Vernon*, for example (who was actually an inch or two too tall to be playing the man, but America kept quiet about that).

"Do you…" the child paused and finishing his sentence as though speaking a swear word, or very naughty word, added, "_Pee_?"

America threw his head back from the force of his laughter. Assured by this outburst, the entire class erupted into little waves of giggles and chuckles and, as previously mentioned, snorts. Even the teacher in the corner was forced to cover over her mouth to prevent tiny little snorts of uncontrollable laughter escaping her mouth, and America could have sworn that the two secret service guys in the corner were holding back sniggers beneath their cold, formal exterior. It took America at least twenty seconds to calm down, though this was entirely his own fault as his imagination had concocted a very vivid mental image of how horrified Britain's face would have been had the question been posed to him by a class of children. When he had finally calmed down (though this was a debatable state of being for the American), he clasped his hands very solemnly and leant forwards, as though about to tell a secret.

"Yeah," whispered America, cupping his mouth with his hands for effect, "'Cuz if I didn't, the Hoover Dam would _burst_!*"

The children gasped in horror at the very idea and America had to stop himself from laughing at their adorable little expressions of disbelief. He wasn't quite telling the truth, of course: if America forgot to go to the loo, the Hoover Dam wouldn't actually burst but if the Hoover Dam burst then… well, you get the idea. It was one of the downsides of being a nation, really. Any sort of overflowing river would directly impact on the personification in question and give them pretty bad bouts of incontinence, though once river levels returned to normal, so to would the incontinence disappear. So, truth be told, America exaggerated the facts a little bit, but that was only so he could smile inwardly at their adorable little faces – oh, how cute and innocent they were!

It was at times like this that America could completely forget about the begrudging acceptance he felt towards his current President. After all, Florida had ached for _weeks_ after the Election scandal thing* and even now, America could feel the quiet but furious contempt of many Democrats* from various other states. President Bush wasn't a bad guy and, although America was still unsure of certain aspects of the President, he did appreciate the man's determination to introduce Education Reforms and stuff. Some Republicans were a bit pissed off*, but the man _had _readily declared that he was a 'compassionate conservative'*, what had they been expecting? Bush Jnr. was hardly a Ronald Reagan, and besides, the new incumbent President had allowed him to go into the school earlier to chat with the kids on his own! America could hardly grumble about that, being as he was enjoying it so much!

"Are you friends with Mr. Britain then?" asked a young girl, golden hair plaited.

"Most of the time," nodded America with a smile before quietly revealing more state secrets to the small audience, "But he's _really _grumpy _all the time_ and his food is… _yuck!_"

Emphasising the '_yuck!'_ by gagging and pretending to throw up into his hands, America was greeted by loud, roaring laughter. He smirked and looked up at the teacher who was smiling warmly at her class. America grinned his trademark smile at her and watched her mouth a solemn and heartfelt 'thank you' before he returned his attention to the adorable, cute little crowd of children before him, who were still rolling around the floor laughing from the statement. Were Britain there, America was sure that he would have been greeted by a string of prolific and unholy words that, probably, would have mentally scarred the poor children for the rest of their long and happy lives. The two secret service guys at the back of the room, America noted, were sniggering quietly to themselves (having both met Britain, it was the miracle of training that enabled them to not roll about on the floor laughing their heads off).

"What about during the Revo… Revo…loo…tea…on…-"

It took all of America's English heritage to stop him gaping and issuing a loud 'aww! so cute!' right then and there. He had always known that children had a tough time pronouncing long, uncommon words, and he was pretty impressed that the child was continuing his struggle despite this difficulty. America could have died happy just listening to the sound of one of his children trying (and slowly succeeding) to give the name of the War of Independence. It was a feat really that the child was managing to pronounce 'revolutionary' so well, but given that the other option was 'independence', this was hardly all that surprising. America had to hand it to Britain, calling it the 'Seven Years' War' made it a hell of a lot easier for small children to pronounce it, even if it did sound completely ridiculous.

"-air…ee War?" finished the small child, beaming from his success.

"We didn't really talk a lot during the War," explained America, trying his best to keep it upbeat and funny, "Whenever we spoke, he was trying to tell _me _how to fight!"

America, upon seeing the curious light dancing in the children's eyes, leapt to his feet in order to better demonstrate the scenario. He parted his feet and held his hands as though to carry an imaginary bayonet. He then proceeded to stab at the air violently and slightly clumsily. The children watched, utterly fascinated by the display. America, as he was attacking the air (which itself was a bit perturbed by the sudden violence), was describing the scene as best he could. Explaining that it was on one of the few days when it didn't rain, and that the British looked absolutely ridiculous prancing (America_ specifically_ used the word 'prancing') about in their red uniforms, America had set the stage for his wonderful Britain impersonation to make a stunning appearance. Introducing himself with 'and then Britain ran up, started trying to hit me and said', America puffed up his chest, stood as straight as he was physically able and proclaimed:

"America! Th-hiss footwork iz ss-imp-lee un-ah-k-cep-tah-bull!" impersonated America with an admittedly _very, very _poor 'English' accent*, which, truthfully, sounded more like a mixture of Australian and Welsh than it did any 'English' accent, "Y-our lef-t foot iz all o-v-err th-er p-lace! K-eep y-our bah-ck s-t-ray-hut! Y-oo w-o-n't hit eh-knee-one like th-ah-t!"

The entire room was in hysterics by this point. Mostly due to the ridiculous-ness of America's story, but at least partly due to the bloody awful (and there were probably more severe words that would be more accurate) 'English' accent he had attempted. He smiled and laughed with them, before sitting down in his seat. He hadn't told them the entire truth, but that was because the Revolutionary War (proud as he was of it), wasn't all bubbles and laughter. Britain _did_ spend several battles trying to tell America how to fight properly, but this was because Britain believed that America's troops were poorly trained. However, and this was where the truth-bending came in, Britain was only giving out this information in between 'kindly requesting' that there be a 'ceasefire' between them. If swearing prolifically and demanding that America 'come to his bloody senses' could be described as 'kindly requesting a ceasefire' anyway.

"Where do –"

_Eastern Daylight Time_

_08:38am_

America visibly changed. His face became a little drawn, a little bit distant, a little bit distracted. The teacher noticed it immediately, becoming slightly concerned, though this concern was veiled by an ignorant curiosity that came with disbelieving that the man before her truly was the personification of the United States of America. The two secret service guys responded immediately to the change. The first, taller by two inches, straightened visibly and turned to his colleague with a very concerned, and slightly panicked expression. The second was on the radio immediately, contacting someone higher up the pecking order who might have some idea of what was going on to cause such a dramatic and sudden change.

"-You live?"

America shook his head, looking down at the small child as a very distracted parent would. He observed no concern there, but instead a burning curiosity and a warming smile that almost melted his heart. He smiled nervously, having forgotten the question entirely thanks to the sudden and interruptive discomfort that had surged across his head. America didn't know the precise details, his country was too large and too vast for him to pinpoint such a tiny, tiny message amongst the sea of information he was constantly inundated with, so he needed to speak to Canada, who may have a slightly better idea of what was going on. After all, whatever it was that was happening, it was NORAD* that had been contacted, and NORAD was currently a tiny throbbing headache in both of their heads.

"Huh?" asked America, "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Where do you live?" repeated the child, unabashed by having to repeat his question.

"Oh, all over the place," replied America, his answer given in short segments, due to his distracted nature, "I have houses in every state, and territory!"

"Does that mean you have one here?" asked another.

"Yeah!" replied America, briefly distracted_ from_ his concerning headache, "Right next to Disneyworld!"

The children gasped in amazement, too caught up in their wonder to notice the two black-suited agents striding forwards from the back of the classroom. One of them walked over towards the teacher, hurriedly explaining something with a flurry of panicked hand gestures. The second crouched lightly beside America and whispered into his ear*. America turned sharply to him and shook his head, whispering something back in harsh and sharp tones. The agent simply frowned and doggedly shook his head, apparently refusing to listen to the nation. Glaring back, America dug around in his pocket and handed over a mobile phone. Showing the agent something on the phone, America promptly patted the man's arm and pointed him towards the door. Begrudgingly obeying the whispered orders, the agent paused at the door to inform his colleague before leaving the room.

America frowned as the man left the room. He liked David, he was a friendly, cheerful sort of guy when he wasn't following orders and being a jerk, but the best thing about him was that he was flexible. He'd told America that the higher-ups had ordered him to leave the room and head to a hospital, as a precautionary measure. America had told David that such a measure was absolutely ridiculous: a drawn face and minor headache did not equal massive catastrophe. David had tried to argue back, but America was having none of it. America had given David his mobile and told the man to ring Canada and find out what was up with NORAD, if it was something serious, America would leave immediately, if it wasn't, America would stay. There was no point making a mountain out of a molehill when they didn't even know if it _was _a molehill. Silly over-cautious officials, America sometimes wondered how they braved the idea of letting him out of his house.

_Greenwich Mean Time_

_12:40pm_

For lack of a better description, England (as he was so named in the borders of the United Kingdom) was pottering around the house. Parliament wasn't back from Summer Recess yet and would start up again in October, before officially beginning another session in November with the State Opening of Parliament*. England had to sigh in despair sometimes. Truthfully, his MPs had holidays and breaks longer than the school holidays* considered gratuitous by all but members of the teaching community. Whilst the vast majority of his MPs used this as an opportunity to do some constituency work, it would be a blatant lie to say they didn't spend at least some of the time _not running the country_. This was why England was stuck without anything to do. There weren't any meetings to attend and all his brothers were off doing their own 'things', as they had been frequently doing since their brand spanking new parliaments and assemblies opened*.

England couldn't actually describe how odd it felt for the entire country to be working, or at school, or at university, and for him to be wandering about his home with nothing all that constructive to be getting on with. There were, naturally, some documents which he ought to have been trifling through, and then there were those questionnaires Tony Blair had forced upon him, but, realistically, was England really going to bother when it was a _Thursday_? 'No' was the simple answer to that question, though there was, as always, a much longer and much more swear-word ridden response that could be posed to anyone stupid enough to actually ask said question. As such, England was left to wander around his home aimlessly, searching for something to do, though all too aware that even if he should find something, his motivational levels were probably far too depleted to actually enable him to do it anyway.

Were he not absolutely sure that the news would be nothing but negative, he might have bothered turning on the television, however, England was quite sure that the BBC (though ITV and Sky were at just as much fault) had never heard of an 'upbeat news story'. The only ones England had ever found were either the products of Newsround* or the BBC's website, and even then, there were more often than not hyperlinks to slightly more depressing news stories. It was as though his entire country had an obsession with the morbid or depressing, or was constantly convinced that the whole nation was in a downward spiral and was much better thirty years ago when everyone behaved properly. Though England would never admit it (as his people never would either), the country had been going 'to the dogs' since it had first formed and, quite frankly, the 'youth of today' were not all that different from the 'youth of the middle ages', not that anyone would ever admit this.

England slowly walked his way over to his study-office-library room, which, at times, even served to function as a music studio of sorts, so eclectic were the items which it contained. There wasn't necessarily anything to do in there, though, the longer he sat down on the comfy lounging arm chair in the centre of the room, the more the paperwork on the table seemed to glare furiously at him. There was his guitar, hanging off the wall and in desperate need of being played, but he'd snapped one of the strings and hadn't yet bothered to get off his arse and buy a replacement yet, so that plan was immediately thrown out of the window. Then of course there were his books and whilst they were the most appealing option, how he'd pick one to actually read was a task that didn't really attract him, due to the immense difficulty such a mission would entail. Thus England was left with nothing to do and whilst the next few minutes would change this situation, it was not a change that the Englishman would have asked for, or would ever care to have repeated.

_Eastern Daylight Time_

_08:43am_

"Hello?" almost-whispered the calm, soft voice from the other end of the line, "This is Canada speaking."

"Hello, Canada," began David, having absolutely no idea how else to address the northern nation, "This is David Jones calling on the behalf of the United States of America."

"Oh, okay," replied Canada, his voice softer than the snow his country often found itself covered from head to toe in, "What does he want?"

"It's about NORAD," explained David, inexplicably finding himself pacing the corridor and rubbing his thigh with his free hand, "Something's happened, but he can't pinpoint exactly what's wrong. He was hoping you'd have more luck."

"NORAD?" asked Canada, a slight tinge of concern seeping through the whispery layers of his soft, soft voice, "He doesn't know?"

"Know what?" asked David, finding his heart began to thrum faster in his chest from the terrifying scenarios his brain was already creating to try and explain the concern in Canada's voice, "What's happened?"

"American Airlines Flight 11 has been hijacked," replied Canada, "They're trying to scramble some jets as we speak. It's headed for…"

A terrifying deathly silence followed after the Canadian's softly spoken words. David Jones (though it would be a lie if he told you that this was his real name) would never ever forget that sound, that still void of nothingness which seemed to hang on the other end of the line for an eternity. David was not a stupid man, he wouldn't have the job he did if he were, and he was immediately able to work out that something very, _very _bad was going to happen and that it was probably going to happen very, _very _soon. A hijacked plane is never a good thing, but a hijacked plane _headed _for somewhere is almost definitely a million times worse if it's not the designated airport. David stopped his pacing immediately and peered in through the window of the classroom door. America seemed fine, for the moment, but what Canada was suggesting through his silence… David would be lying if he had told you that he wasn't scared beyond his wits.

"Canada?"

"Oh, maple… please… no…" Canada's voice was far too breathless for comfort, "Mr Jones?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"You need to call an ambulance _now_," explained Canada, "And you need to make sure my brother is okay. I might be wrong, and I hope with all my heart I am, but you _will _call an ambulance, right now. _Do you understand me?_"

Perhaps it was the threatening undertones in the last question. Perhaps it was the assertive, stubborn and sudden authority with which all the sentences had been spoken. David Jones wasn't sure what it was, but his entire body shivered and froze from those words. He'd always known that Canada and America were brothers, they'd fought (they often still did) and they argued, but they were close in more ways than simple geographical location. The last words spoken to him by Canada before the latter hung up did nothing but make this connection startlingly obvious. The threat in Canada's voice should David dare to not obey his orders was as clear as a recently polished diamond, and so David did not hesitate to immediately send the call out over his radio before staring intently at his nation through the small, hashed window of the classroom door. David had never been so scared in all his life.

_Eastern Daylight Time _

_08:44am_

"Well, yeah, I s'pose, a little," replied America, "But only a bit, 'cause I'm the hero!"

The little children seemed to find this outburst amusing and America noticed that even the teacher had to restrain a small smile from creeping up upon her face. It was a nice change, America mentally noted. Americans generally didn't seem particularly put off by the statement, generally agreeing with it and then attempting to list all the ways in which the U.S.A _had _been the hero of the 20th century, and, likely enough, would be in the 21st. However, had America repeated that statement anywhere else in the world (particularly and notably in the cynical British Isles), the laughter at the end would not have been anything short of mocking and ridiculing. At least with his own people he could be sure that their laughter wasn't, at least directly, malicious.

"Okay, class," announced the teacher, looking up from her watch, "We've only got time for one question, so make it a good one!"

Immediately hands flew up left, right and centre, as all the children were eager to ask their own question, and some, likely enough, just wanted to have the last word. Smiling at the passionate desire of the class to ask the last question, America deliberately, and kindly (because he's nice like that) picked one of the children who had not asked a single question the entire forty-five minutes he'd been there. Their patience and quietness should be rewarded, and America felt that the last question was an appropriate prize for their attentive ears and bright little eyes. Eyes falling on a nervous looking young boy situated at the back of the classroom, America pointed (patriotically and dramatically, of course) at him and declared loudly, probably louder than actually required, that he would be giving the last question. The little boy's face lit up visibly and America couldn't help but grin from ear to ear at the sight.

"Do you ever get scared?"

America frowned slightly. There was no particularly dominant reason for this reaction, it was just that he hadn't been expecting that question at all. He was surprised that no one had asked it before, and it seemed bizarre that it should come up so late in the session. It would normally be one of the first questions asked, so America found it quite odd that it should be the last on this particular day. In response to the question, America played serious. He drew his face into a serious, state-secret-giving expression and leant forwards onto his lap. Staring intently into that child's eyes alone, America was very sure that he must have seemed to have been the most serious adult in the world in those few short seconds. Seeing the myriad of fear and curiosity in those little green pools forced America to decide that he was going to tell the whole and entire truth to the little boy, not realising how poignant this moment would later prove to be.

"Yeah, even heroes get scared sometimes," replied America solemnly with a small smile, "Like, _don't tell anyone_, but I'm afraid of ghosts."

"Really?" whispered/asked the small boy.

"Oh yeah," assured America with an exaggerated nod of the head, "But, you know there's something that scares me even more than ghosts? And it's not Britain's cooking!"

The class giggled a bit at the latter sentence, before quickly silencing as America opened his mouth to speak again, a solemn and honest expression visible on his face.

"More than anything in the whole wide universe," began America, "I'm scared of losing _you_: my wonderful, cheery, patriotic, little people," a solemn, appreciative silence fell upon the room before America decided to break it, "So don't mess around in the road!"

The children smiled and nodded and proudly promised to never do anything stupid that would endanger their precious little souls. America smiled at that, loving the dedication and cheery disposition dancing upon their adorable little faces. Waving his goodbyes, and being dragged towards the door by his other secret service guy, Jerry Tomlinson, America was quite sure that this morning would put him in a good mood for the rest of the day. Once outside the door, America had a few seconds to observe the terrified expression on David's face and the sympathetic concern on Jerry's face before, in America's mind, literally all Hell broke loose.

_Greenwich Mean Time_

_12:46pm_

-M!

England leapt out of his seat and immediately patted himself down, expecting some surge of pain or twitch or stabbing sensation to alert him to the problem. When no such thing occurred, England frowned, furrowing his brows deeply as though that action alone would solve the problem. He glared at the floor, staring at it as though somehow it had caused the problem (this action, naturally, bemused the floor, as it hadn't done anything in particular to deserve this glowering). England looked around. He was sure he'd heard an explosion of some description. He was positive of it. He would, readily, have sworn his very life on the fact that he'd heard _something somewhere explode_. Yet, he couldn't put his finger on where, so it couldn't have been England, or even Wales, Northern Ireland or Scotland, as he'd have felt it for much, much longer. So, what on Earth had happened?

Feeling a nervous swirling sensation engulf his gut, England knew with an inexplicable certainty that something was _wrong_ and that something had happened somewhere in the world. He paced almost immediately, stalking around his armchair as though it would blurt out the answers for him due to his intimidating strides. When had he felt sensations like that before? He was sure that that particular _faded _feeling of something being wrong was something he'd felt before, the question merely was _when_ and _who_. He wracked his brains, before eventually coming across a distinctive memory that held the key, or at least, perhaps, a small segment of it. The last time he'd felt something like that, though the feeling was far stronger, was when Argentina had invaded the Falklands. So, had a territory been attacked?

"No," England asserted aloud, "It was weaker this time… maybe a former colony?"

That would make sense wouldn't it? When something happened to the United Kingdom, England felt (if inside his borders) a five second flash of whatever the brother in question was feeling. When something happened to a territory, he'd feel a two or three second flash of whatever his not-quite-independent-not-quite-colony felt. So, what was left? Ex-colonies made independent was what was left. Then again, that made no sense. He'd never felt anything before. Members of the Commonwealth had suffered attacks and economic issues before and he'd never felt anything besides sympathy, and that was after they'd _told _him what was wrong. England paced and bit his thumb in frustration. Something, somewhere had happened and of that much, he was sure, but the questions remained. Where had the 'something' happened? And why on Earth had England heard it?

Then again, maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe his brain had simply been imagined the whole thing and nothing had actually happened. However, no matter what England told himself, the discomforting, swirling nervous anxiety in his stomach, in his gut, would not go away. He paced and he nibbled on his lip and he paced some more, but nothing he could do would take away the overall sensation that someone needed his attention and that something had happened. England folded his arms, clasping the sides of his arms as though they would fall off if he dared for a second to just let go. Regardless of whether something had happened or not, England decided doggedly, he ought to just see if anyone else had heard of anything happening. After all, it was better to be safe than sorry, right?

_Eastern Daylight Time_

_08:48am _

"**ARGH!"**

"Please, Sir, please! We need you to move! _Please,_ you need to let us help you!"

"**Why? Wha'? How? I don't understand." **

David Jones felt as though his heart was shattering inside his chest. It was as though his intestines were bored full of gaping, endless holes. He had never been so distressed in all his life. He was sure that he never would be again. Nothing could compare to the sensations wracking his entire being in that moment. Nothing could compare to the look on his nation's face. David Jones was sure he would never be the same again. Helping his beloved nation had never been so painful. Being around his precious country had never scared him so much in all his life. He found himself wanting two things at the same time. David wanted to run away and hide in a corner, but he also wanted to be there to soothe the pain. He wanted to kill the bastard that had done this, but he wanted to save everyone in that doomed tower. He'd never truly known what helplessness was until that day.

"**How could this happen? How did this happen? I just want it to stop!"**

Another deafening wail tore through the small building. The children's distressed crying could be heard as a sympathetic echo to the distress of their nation. A symphony of pained near-screams, whimpers and mindless roars were quickly harmonised by terrified wailing, sympathetic whispers and heartfelt yelling. The chorus of tears that filled the building was utterly heart-wrenching and the sounds would return to haunt those that had heard the sad, sad symphony in nightmares and dreams long after the event.

Between the animalistic sounds echoing through the building, raw and instinctive and altogether more terrifying than any other sound to have ever escaped the mouth of a living creature, were sounds significantly more concerning. America's head would launch back violently and a silent scream would be followed by streams of thick black, toxic fumes of indescribable heat. Though the American's skin was as cold as ice from the personified shock of his people, his eyes reflected imaginary flames that engulfed everything, almost entirely swallowing up the shimmering sapphire orbs that would normally radiate joy. It was as though he was burning on the inside, suffocating on the smoke produced by flames no one could access, let alone extinguish.

Droplets of blood coated the floor of the building as the superpower was half-dragged to the entrance. Glistening like scattered rubies, the tiny pools of blood occasionally collected together to form tear shaped petals of crimson liquid in the wake of the hurting being. Beside these little garnets were little puddles of liquid diamond, sitting there as though mourning the precious red gems that had fallen beside them. The hallway would be cleaned later, but the twinkling crystals of pooled fluids would haunt the minds of those who saw them for evermore.

"America, Sir, you _need _to listen to us, Sir, we're going to get you help, we're going to-"

"**Why is this happening? Why can't I save them? I don't understand!"**

David and Jerry were having an incredibly hard time. America was not a particularly light nation, as Britain had repeatedly pointed out, but that wasn't what was causing the problem. The problem was that America was refusing to cooperate due to the incredible haze of pain which seemed to wrack every fibre of his being. They were dragging him along the floor, holding his arms as his feet had buckled underneath him and America had forgotten, in his blind fog of pain and confusion and hurt and terror, how to use them. The nation was trying to pull away from them at every moment, as though afraid they would worsen or cause additional pain, though, milliseconds later, he would lean into them, as though frantically yearning for the comfort and aid that they were trying ever so hard to provide.

Bzzz! Bzzz!

David frowned, though he was frowning anyway. Something was vibrating in his pocket. He tried to ignore it. They were almost by the entrance, the flashing lights could be seen pouring in through the glass panes, lighting the entire building with something that was far more profound and meaningful than something as simple and crude as medical aid. Those lights, swirling and flashing and snapping and glistening, meant so much more to the two secret service guys and infinitely more to the growling, grumbling, screaming, groaning, wailing casualty as the pain spiked and fell and spiked and fell like the stocks of a particularly controversial company. As they pulled America closer to the lights, they could feel the nation's arms stretch outwards, as though trying to capture those flashing saviours in his palms.

Bzzz! _Bzzzzz!_

Insisted the device in David's suit pocket. He tried to glare at it through his trousers, though this was ineffectual at best. He ignored it once more. The paramedics had already rushed inside and were waving bandages and torches and all sorts around whilst calmly whispering words of reassurance and assertive, but collected commands. In a few minutes, America was being strapped into the bed in the back of the ambulance that took no hesitation in roaring into life and firing off at, frankly unsafe speeds, towards the nearest hospital. All the while, America was sweating profusely, burning up at temperatures able to instigate flames, ignorantly allowing tears to cascade town the side of his face as he tore his head from side to side, as though trying to deny the tragedy its right to happen and nearly tearing his body apart in futile attempts to get the pain to cease and deter.

Bzzz! BZZZ!

David tore the device from his trouser pocket and glared at it ferociously, daring it to buzz again, daring the person on the other side to be stupid enough to persist. Needless to say, as soon as the pale white, flashing word 'Britain' was visible on the device, David realised that his attempts to shut the device up would be all but futile.

_Greenwich Mean Time _

_12:50pm_

Bbring! Bbring!

Pause.

Bbring! Bbring!

Pause.

Bbring! Bbring!

"Why the _hell _can't that stupid idiot learn to answer his _bloody _phone?"

Bbring! Bbri-

"WHAT?" roared the other line.

England, had he been sitting in a seat, would have leapt out of it. Firstly, the voice was unfamiliar and was definitely _not _America, and that, in itself, was immediately concerning. Secondly, the voice was furious beyond (in England's present mind) reason and roaring many, many decibels beyond what could be described as within the reasons of being acceptable. Aside from all that, it was the underlying, almost invisible tones within the voice that nearly sent England into a freezing cold fear right then and there. There was an abundance of worry and concern and protectiveness and fury in that voice that England hadn't heard for a fairly long time, and certainly never in relation to the incredibly powerful superpower that was England's former colony. Immediately, England knew that whatever that 'something bad' was, it had happened and it had happened to America.

"What's happened?" stated England, without hesitation.

"It's none of your business," hissed the other, "We're a little busy at the moment."

"Congratulations," replied England, his sarcasm venomous, "Pass me to America."

"Why the fuck should I?" growled the other threateningly, "We're busy and you're wasting my precious time right now."

"Listen to me, _little man_," spat England, his voice more terrifying in these words than it had been for a very long time, "I will tell you once. Pass me to America now, or I swear on all that's good and holy in this world that I will mercilessly track you down and beat you to death with the sharpest and bloodiest instrument I can find. Are we clear?"

Pause.

"I asked you a question."

"Yes,_ Sir_."

The sarcastic venom loaded in that one monosyllabic word was almost incomprehensible. Did England care? No. America was hurt. Whoever had answered the phone could be the Lord God Jesus Christ and England wouldn't have taken back his threat. England didn't even particularly care if America _wanted _to talk to him or not. England was going to talk to America if he had to kill Russia to do it. There was nothing Heaven nor Earth nor Hell could do that would prevent England talking to his closest ally, arguably his closest friend. Had England not been so wrapped up in insuring himself a place in Hell for his merciless threats against certain religious figures, he would have realised that his behaviour was nothing short of being described as quintessentially parental.

"**Why? Why am I so weak? Why couldn't I stop this? Why can't I save them?" **

England gasped. His stomach twisted into a knot so tight and small that he was quite sure the organ would simply vanish altogether from his abdomen. His heart seemed to stop for a second, frozen in fear and in sympathy and in horror and in regret and there were soon so many emotions swirling around in his heart that it felt as though it might just explode inside his ribcage. Prickles of sharp, stinging swords were immediately present in his eyes, poking and stabbing away utterly mercilessly as they tried to persuade the tear ducts to give way and induce an onslaught of heart-wrenching, heart-broken, sympathetic sobs. It hurt him unimaginably painfully to hear _those _words in _that _tone leave _his _mouth. It was all England could do not to sink to the floor in despair almost instantaneously.

"It's Britain, he wants to talk to you."

"**Britain?"**

England's heart snapped in two but hearing him over the phone, you would never have imagined that he was anything but collected and motherly and soothing. The change was instantaneous in the ancient nation. No sooner had America's voice spoken directly down the phone than England's fear and pain and shock had gone. America did not need someone reciprocating and elevating his terror right now. He needed someone to soothe the pain he was feeling and to tell him that it was going to be okay, even though they all knew that it wasn't okay and that it wouldn't be okay for a long time and that there was even the possibility that it would never ever be okay ever again. England was there to lie, to be the wonderfully tempting voice of the devil that tempts you into believing things that are false, even when these false things are so beautiful and necessary. England was there to soothe, because he knew America would be too busy trying to suffer and recover and save what he could to remember to be soothed.

"_Sssh,_" whispered England softly, pouring his heart down the phone, "_Shush_."

"**Britain? Britain? It hurts, why, why did they do this? Why would someone do this? I'm supposed to be the hero, I'm supposed to be strong, I'm supposed to protect th-"**

"_~Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird~*_"

"**Britain? What are you-"**

"_~And if that mockingbird don't sing, Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring~_"

"**Bri-"**

"_And if that diamond ring turns brass, Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass~_"

_Eastern Daylight Time_

_08:53am_

America frowned blearily at the mobile being held to his ear. Were he not absolutely and completely inundated by a million emotions and feelings and sensations at once, he'd have been able to question the Briton and his bizarre ways a bit more efficiently. America felt as though every nerve in his body was on fire, burning brightly and fiercely and erupting violently into spikes of pain whenever a life was brutally taken away from him. Then, at the same time, his entire body was covered in a cold sweat of disbelieving shock and horror and fear. A large part of him could just barely believe that any of it was really happening, though the other part of him was too preoccupied watching the disaster to try and work out whether or not it was some fantastic, and horrific illusion. America would be lying through his sparkling, picture perfect, white teeth if he'd said that the music made all the pain go away, because it didn't, but, equally, the quiet singing didn't do nothing at all either.

"~_And if that looking glass gets broke, Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat~_"

It was reassuring. Among the chaos and the pain and the outfight fear and shock, it was like a calm breeze, not really doing anything significant to help, but there as a constant presence all the same. America knew Britain, in all reality, couldn't do jack shit to help him (the Atlantic Ocean can have this effect on people) but the sound of his voice over the phone, quiet and almost silent amidst the hellish tragedy, was _just _there. It was, and would be, there the entire day, doing nothing but quietly singing familiar, American songs in a softer than usual British accent that would have made the man almost impossible to identify, had it not been for the occasional string of swear words that would flourish from the phone the instant it was moved an inch away from America's ear.

"_~And if that billy goat don't pull, Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull~_"

America could easily have survived without the soothing, soft songs, but it was their near constant presence, and the influx of messages from other countries throughout the day, that assured him that people were ready and willing to support him in whatever way he might need. The countries of the world - bar one or two, whom Briton (amongst his singing) near-vowed to lamp one* - were united behind the superpower, regardless of previous disagreements with him. This was, and the day would later only confirm this, a human tragedy and, like all tragedies, the world would mourn its casualties and the continued damage it would bring until it gradually faded from living memory into a non-descript, but horrific event that would haunt the world forever from its memorials and history books and news archives. It was perhaps that support, perhaps, that helped America get through that day, though, without the shadow of a doubt, the resolve of his people was the primary reason he did.

"America, Sir?" queried the familiar, but cracked-by-worry voice of David Jones.

"_~And if that cart and bull turn over, Papa's gonna buy you a dog named Rover~_"

America looked up, grimacing from the muscular tissue pain which ached as he tilted his neck back to lock eyes with his long-standing bodyguard-friend. His hurt blue eyes were teared up and bloodshot and clearly far too much to look at for longer than a second or so. David immediately averted his eyes, choosing to stare at America's hairline rather than directly into those heart-wrenching sapphire pools. America almost-smiled a small smile of reassurance, though, with his pursed lips, this came out as more of a pained and suffering grimace than an attempt to reassure and calm. America knew he'd be okay, and maybe that made everything worse. He didn't want to ever forget those he'd lost, and those he didn't know he had yet to lose, but the truth was that he would live on; they wouldn't and he was their hero, their nation and he had failed them and couldn't do a thing to help them.

"_~And if that dog named Rover won't bark, Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart~_"

"Sir? America?" explained/whispered David solemnly, "We're at the hospital, do you want me to take the mobile away?"

"Oh you fucking try it!" screamed the mobile viciously, "You bloody so much as _think_ of daring and I will beat you half to death with a tossing _toothbrush_ before throwing you into a cage full of fucking _wolves_."

Needless to say, the mobile phone was left by America's ear at all times after that, much to the distress of the hospital staff (who received significantly heightened threats when they tried to remove the phone without even asking).

_Greenwich Mean Time _

_00:30am_

"Firm…_ ~united let us be~, _ra_~llying round our li~_berty_.*_"

"Britain?"

"As a_ ~band of brothers joined, peace and safety we shall~ _find_._"

"What time is it over there?"

"_~Immortal patriots, rise~ _once _~more, defend you rights~ _wait a minute… I can't sing that, it's insensitive… hmmm."

"Britain, you've killed that song," assured America, "What time is it?"

England looks over to the ancient clock ticking away on the mantelpiece. He glares at it furiously, unable to read it thanks to the rather large collection of sleepy-dust that's invaded his eyes. The TV's still muttering away to itself quite happily, apparently now relaying images of a press conference hosted by the President. England wasn't really listening, though a small part of him felt it was his duty to try. He, after realising that the time on the television would be a lot easier to read, observed that it was past midnight. That wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't got up at around seven 'o' clock like the rest of the country thinking that he had some sort of work to do. Well, there was that, and then there was the stress he'd felt all day.

Truthfully, England felt insensitive as hell even thinking of suggesting that he was stressed that day. America had gone through pain and suffering that England couldn't imagine, and even if there was somewhere in his own history he _could _compare it to, to do so would be utterly heartless. England, like all nations, knew that a tragedy ought never to be compared to another because that seems to imply that one was worse than the other, which shows nothing except a heartless disregard of human life and an insensitivity that ought to be punishable by death. England was exhausted, but felt thoroughly as though he had no right to feel this way, despite his near-constant yawning, because, in his mind at least, he should be awake and there for America the whole day.

"Britain?"

"Hmm, it's just gone midnight here." stated England, voice crackling and croaky as it escaped his throat. Well that was a sodding lie. Just gone midnight? Since when does half an hour equate to 'just gone'? England swore that Northern Ireland was rubbing off on him.

"You should go to bed."

England smiled slightly. Silly child. How could England possibly go to bed, knowing that America was still awake? He'd seen the news. He'd seen the live footage of that second plane and of the Pentagon and of the shuddering, shattering, sodding chaos. How on Earth could he leave America, having seen all that? England was sure that, even if somehow he did manage to fall asleep, the cold, haunting image of that second plane would return in his dreams and replay itself over and over until he woke up. Seeing that plane* shattered England's mind and fractured his heart, and he was eternally grateful that his mouth continued to function and sing without him, because the silence would only have made things worse. If silence had prevailed in that moment, England was sure that America's shrill cry would have hurt so much more.

"Don't be silly." harrumphed England dismissively.

"Britain, you've been on the phone all day," the American's voice paused before it added with a small bright light of the former America, "Your phone bill is going to be fricking huge."

"Hmm," England almost chuckled, before adding, "I'm right here."

"I know."

"The Prime Minister's said the same," pausing England imitated his voice, "He said, 'we stand full square alongside the U.S'.* And the Queen as well: 'growing disbelief and shock'*, she said. And NATO, they've invoked Article 5* and Sweden's picked a side of the fence* and-"

"Britain, you're rambling," interrupted America, who sounded suddenly older and wiser than his barely-over-two-hundred-years, "Go to bed."

"Shut up," replied England, "I'm staying until _you_ fall asleep."

"You'll run out of songs before I fall asleep."

"Oh, is that a challenge?" queried England, a victorious smirk making its way upon his face, "I know of _one _I haven't sung yet."

"And?"

"Keep an eye on our side of the pond in three days time, alright?*"

_Eastern Daylight Time_

_08:32pm_

America was bemused. Why? Was something happening in Britain on the fourteenth? Oh well, he'd likely enough be cooped up at home or the hospital for the next couple of weeks, so it wasn't exactly like he'd have anything better to do anyway.

"_~Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light~_"

America, rather fruitlessly it must be said, had been attempting to convince Britain to go to bed. After all, it was past midnight there and the man had been singing (except when he paused to swear and issue unnecessarily violent threats) nearly all day. The man really ought to go to bed, but, as usual, Britain was too stubborn for his own good. It was something America was sure he'd picked up off the Englishman. A stubborn streak that was almost impossible to win over? That was simply one of the many things the two countries shared in common (though, admittedly, almost all nations appeared to have the very same trait). America sighed, defeated, into the mobile.

"_~What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming~_"

He was, truthfully, exhausted. His entire body was aching, though intense waves of pain continued to flicker in and out of life in New York City and D.C. Coated in a thick layer of cold sweat, America couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt quite so uncomfortable and quite so jumpy in his entire life. He'd heard his President promise to catch the bastards responsible, and America could feel an ignorant blind rage building up inside him. His entire being cried out for revenge, or vengeance, for the attack and a tiny part of America felt unadulterated fear. He was sure that this hatred was aimed only at the people responsible but, being such a large country, someone somewhere was likely to target the wrong people, the wrong minority. He sighed and lay back into his crimson-stained hospital bed. He needed rest, but was wary of nightmares and haunting images.

"_~Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight~_"

Was that Britain singing…? No. It couldn't be. He'd never…

"_~O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?~_"

America's eyelids began to flutter helplessly, dragged downwards by the heavy weight of exhaustion and by a willingness to drift off into a deep sleep. America could feel his body's pain echo away into a dull, but still very present, throbbing, significant but not enough so as to prevent the genuine decline of consciousness into sleep. He dragged his eyelids open to stare around the room, observing through the glass, hashed windows the concerned gazes of his two bodyguard-friends. He smiled weakly at them, watching proudly as the one solemnly held his hand over his heart and the other saluted, not caring how odd it would look within the confines of a medical institution.

"_~And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in the air~_"

America could feel himself gently drift off, as the sounds around him dulled.

"_~Gave proof through the night that your flag was still there~_"

America smiled, having heard the addition of the letter 'y'.

"~_Oh, see how that star-spangled banner yet waves~_"

More changes to the American National Anthem? Oh Britain, you sneaky man.

"_~O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave~_"

All that could be heard over the phone the opposite side of the Atlantic was the gentle but regular breathing of the young man England once called his little brother.

_9/11 was a shocking, utterly horrific tragedy and I can only pray that I have not insulted the memories of those who lost their lives. _

*_surrounded by young Americans: as George Bush was in a school in Florida on the day, I thought it would be appropriate for America to be as well_

_*like George Washington at Mount Vernon: at Mount Vernon (First President/War Hero George Washington's House) you can find a George Washington lookalike_

_*'cuz if I didn't, the Hoover Dam would burst: referring to the infamous Hoover Dam constructed in the 1930s which is in the Colorado River between Nevada and Arizona, not the one in Ohio_

_*the Election scandal thing: in 2000, there were a lot of problems in Florida with recounts galore and allegations of voters being turned away or stricken off the records, Wikipedia it if you want more info (this footnote would be the size of a small essay by the time I'd finished explaining it)_

_*quiet but furious contempt of many Democrats: understandably, the Democrats were unhappy with the 2000 General Election which gave Democratic candidate Al Gore a majority of the popular vote but not the presidency (blame the Electoral College)_

_*some Republicans were a bit pissed off: some of the more right-wing Republicans were annoyed by Bush because he was actually pretty liberal as far as politics goes_

_*he was a 'compassionate conservative': Bush advertised himself as such during the campaign, because he wanted to appeal to liberals whilst not losing the support of his own party_

_*very, very poor 'English' accent: the English frequently (and I mean frequently) laugh at American attempts to impersonate our accent as it is always horribly bad and ignorant of regional differences (e.g. we do not all sound like cockneys, who only occupy the East End of London)_

_*NORAD: North American Aerospace Defence Command (technically spelt 'Defense', but I'm British so I disregard this spelling)_

_*crouched lightly beside America and whispered into his ear: this is imitating a scene played out later in the day when Andrew Card (Chief of Staff) whispers the news into George Bush's ear_

_*State Opening of Parliament: is perhaps the most bizarre thing you will ever watch and is a tradition held every November and after every General Election, you need to watch it with a commentary just to have a clue as to what's going on _

_*MPs had holidays and breaks longer than the school holidays: the Summer Recess and Winter Recess of a Parliamentary Session are both longer than the matching school holidays by about a week or so_

_*since their brand spanking new parliaments and assemblies opened: the Scottish Parliament, Northern Irish Assembly and Welsh Assemblies all first came into session in 1999, a year after the relevant acts and treaties ordered their creation_

_*Newsround: a version of the news aimed at kids, usually with upbeat and funny stories from all over the world at the end, it's shown every day on CBBC (the Children's BBC)_

_*hush little baby: is a lullaby believed to be of American origin, though no one is actually sure where it came from (I'd argue that it must be American because I'm sure British lullaby/nursery rhymes aren't so grammatically incorrect)_

_*to lamp someone: to hit them round the head, e.g. I lamped him one, I'm gonna lamp that bitch one the next time I see her etc. (does not necessarily involve lamps in any way)_

_*firm… ~united let us be~, ra~llying round our li~berty: an extract of 'Hail, Columbia!' which was Wikipedia tells me, the unofficial national anthem before 'The Star-Spangled Banner' became the official anthem_

_*seeing that plane: I was too young at the time to remember, but watching that image in footage on Youtube or the BBC is blood-chilling, and I think that image curdled the blood of everyone who saw it, all over the world_

_*'we stand full square alongside the U.S': this is what Tony Blair said, though I'm sure he probably said a bit more than this (this is Tony Blair we're talking about here)_

_*'growing disbelief and shock': this is what the Queen said, and I think the entire world expressed much the same sentiment_

_*Article 5: for the first time in NATO's fifty-two year history, the group invoked Article 5 affirming that, 'an armed attack against one or more of them in Europe or North America shall be considered an attack against them all' and even pledged action, 'including the use of armed force'_

_*Sweden's picked a side of the fence: Sweden, like Switzerland, is a neutral country, normally with an allergy for one side of the fence or the other, however, one Swedish political scientist told Reuters that 'there has not been… a trace of hesitation of where we stand'_

_*keep an eye on our side of the pond in three days time: on the 14__th__ September, for the first time in British history, the Queen ordered her troops to play 'The Star Spangled Banner' at the Changing of the Guard, it's an incredibly powerful thing to watch, even on Youtube_


	12. 27th November 2007

**Again, a huge thanks to **OMGitsgreen**, **xMaddie**, **Tazzilicious**, **Korean Boron **and **HoshiUta **for reviewing. It really does make my day.**

**At the request of **Tazzilicious**.**

**Reviews are very much appreciated and requests accepted with open arms.**

_How the UK siblings may have responded to an MP's observation that Wales ought to be represented on the flag._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Welsh dragon call for Union flag**

**27****th**** November 2007**

"Look, it's not my idea," defended England, loudly interrupting the groans and, oddly enough, pleas of his older brothers, "It's Margaret's idea."

Scotland's head fired upwards at speeds that ought to have been physically impossible, but, being as this was Scotland, any impossible task immediately becomes the subject of debate. (The man wears kilts in _winter_, and Scottish winter* at that, for God's sake). The flare of fury in the man's eyes would have seemed completely unprompted and unreasonable were it not for the name that had sparked this reaction. Mentioning the name 'Margaret' in the vicinity of any of the Isles brothers (though this reaction was amplified in Scotland*) immediately instigated untempered anger. Even then, that was only because there were significantly large pockets in all their populations that had hated, and even despised, their former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher*. Thus, the name 'Margaret' was enough to set them off in the vast majority of cases.

"Thatcher!" demanded Scotland with a deafening shriek, virtually leaping out of his chair, "Whit does th' bitch want now?"

"Margaret Hodge, Scotland," sighed England, "The Culture Minister?"

It was, England briefly pondered, an incredibly stupid question. He only knew her name because she had this bloody awful habit of getting herself into the news for saying or doing incredibly silly things. England thought that maybe she was just trying to get in the news so that people would remember who she was, because, let's face it: you don't get famous for being the Culture Minister. Heck, the woman sat in cabinet meetings and England frequently forgot she was and tried to have her removed by security, only to be stopped by an unusually smiley Tony Blair (who clearly took some amusement in this near-weekly error).

"Who th' whit now?"

There was the fact that she was the Culture Minister (a Department you tended to forget about unless it was waltzing about cocking up the Olympics or cutting funding for everything that looks like it might actually go somewhere), and then there was the fact that his brothers now had their own Parliaments and Assemblies with their own Departments and Ministers to worry about. It really ought to have not surprised him in the slightest that none of them could remember, or bother to try and remember, just who the British Culture Minister was. Nonetheless, England was surprised by his brothers' collective ignorance of their Culture Minister (even if said minister spent most of their time running an almost invisible Department that the public had an awful habit of forgetting completely).

"The Culture Minister," repeated England, "Labour MP? Can't stop saying derisive things about everything that moves?"

"She the one who won that Big Brother Award for 'Worst Public Servant'?*" asked Wales, having remembered pissing himself laughing at another incompetent English politician (not that a non-English politician would be any more competent).

England nodded. That particular day had been very amusing. Well, there was that, and then there was that one occasion where Fathers 4 Justice* had succeeded in handcuffing her on charges of 'child abuse'. That had been a good day. England quite often got laughs out of his frankly bizarre political system, but that particular year had really pushed the boat out. Had England not been so busy laughing at poor Margaret Hodge, he might have been concerned that the pressure group had succeeded in getting close enough to one of his ministers to _manage _to handcuff her. It was like that time when they'd gotten into the House of Commons and thrown flour bombs at Tony Blair during PMQs*: England probably should have been concerned for the safety of his government officials, but was too busy laughing to actually care.

"_Anyway_," began Northern Ireland, keen to draw the conversation away from the rather uninteresting topic of the Culture Minister and her incapability to go a year without insulting someone or something, "Wat were we blatherin' about?"

"Oh right, yes," stated England, fumbling over his words with as much difficulty as people try and unlock their front doors when being chased by axe-wielding murderers in horror movies, "We were meant to be talking about the Union flag."

"Whit about it?" asked Scotland, a keen smile on his face as he continued, "Yoo're nae thinkin' of takin' away St George's Cross are ye? 'Coz Ah'd be totally up fur 'at."

England glowered ineffectually at Scotland. Ineffectually, of course, because England's threats nowadays were limited to _threatening _to take away Scotland's recently devolved powers. Even then, these were just threats because any attempt to actually remove Scotland's new Parliament or its powers would be met with (knowing Scotland as well as he did) extreme and unnecessary violence. At the very least, should England ever come through on his threats (needless to say that he never did), he'd certainly be greeted with a bloody nose, though this would likely be followed up by a black eye and rioting reminiscent of the Poll Tax days. Therefore, England's glaring at Scotland did little besides force one of their other siblings to continue the discussion.

"'As this got anythin' to do with what that MP said in the Commons?" asked Wales, curious, but with a twinkling sparkle of hope glistening in his eyes for reasons that would soon become clear, "What was 'is name? Ian Lucas? MP for Wrexham?"

As if Wales would forget the name of one of his MPs! What a bloody joke! England stared at Wales with a sardonic expression on his face. Ian Lucas was a Welsh MP, of course Wales would bloody well know what the man had suggested. Mr Lucas had, unsurprisingly, been the one to point out that Wales wasn't represented on the Union flag and suggest that maybe they should just stick the red dragon on the front of it so that he was. This suggestion was immediately shot down by an English Tory MP*, for reasons that were obvious as soon as you'd established the man was English, but the argument was picked up on by the bloody marvellous Margaret Hodge. It was for this reason that England was now stuck in his front room trying to convince his brothers that they ought to discuss the matter of Wales's missing representation on the Union flag.

As it was England's intention to discuss the missing presence of Welsh-ness on the Union flag and try and suggest they do something to amend it, this naturally failed to happen. The ability of England's siblings to avoid talking about whatever England wished to talk about was one that had become instinctive after three hundred years of Union with the man. Therefore, what happened instead was that the UK siblings took this opportunity to bitch about and taunt each other over their national animals. How they had leapt from the matter of fiddling with the Union flag to national symbols would have been a curious and bizarre mystery worth some in-depth investigation had Northern Ireland's comment not been the match that started the fire.

"Ye just want ter stick yer bleedin' dragon on de front!"

_Oh God! _England remarked silently in the (usually) safe confines of his brain, _Please tell me he didn't just insult Wales's dragon._

"What did you just say," seethed Wales, adding an endearment that, with his current tone, sounded more like the worst swear word ever invented by mankind, "Boyo?*"

_Oh Christ on a bike! _cursed England mentally, before, admittedly stupidly, adding, _Well, at least things can't possibly get any worse._

"Mornin'. Ow're yuh doin'?"

England span around sharply on his heels, observing briefly that if he kept up this habit then eventually his local cobbler would have enough money to move to a much nicer area, give up work and lounge around doing nothing for the rest of his days. The source of the voice was not a wholesomely welcome presence in England's house for several reasons. The first was that the creature in question had an innate habit of appearing only when the country was in an (arguably) desperate state, or when said creature felt like winding England up. The latter was the case on this particular day and England wouldn't have minded quite so much had the creature not decided to appear on the one day that he and his brothers just so happened to be beginning a debate that would no doubt be violent and cause untold damage (once again) to England's house, wallet and overall health.

The owner of the voice was England's familiar, a creature that belonged to him in the same sense that a human can own a cat (in that the reverse was true). England's familiar, rather predictably, was a lion, known as Richard*. Were England stupid enough and inclined to having his hand bitten off, he could have rested his elbow on Richard's head; such was the height of the familiar. Richard looked much like any other lion, though his eyes burned with an intelligent intensity that would make any human do a double take just to be sure that they were actually looking at a lion. His mane was incredibly dark and deep and full, though the strands which were not dark were a bright golden shade in the sunlight. The only aspect of England's familiar that made him significantly different from any other sort of lion was the fact that he wore a crown* on his head that couldn't be removed by any degree of physical force (not that anyone had ever been stupid enough to give it a go). Well, there was the crown, and then there was the fact that Richard spoke, and that he changed which accent he used each time they met.

"Oh God," sighed England, "What're you doing here?"

"Yuh cud at least sound happy tuh see me!"

"Why are you here?" demanded England, becoming assertive as the shouting battle between Wales and North picked up in volume behind him, "And why do you have that accent anyway?"

"Wot? Brummie?" queried Richard, looking up with an expression that indicated that he thought England was an idiot (though this was nothing new), "Secund largist populayshun outside London*, that's why."

"It was Southampton last month," stated England, "Is there a pattern to this, or are you just trying to confuse me?"

SWOOSH!

BANG!

"ARGH!"

Pause.

"'Ow the holy feck is that fair?"

England sighed and turned around and nearly died of a heart attack. His house, for lack of a better description, had been pretty badly damaged by the appearance of Wales's familiar, _Y Ddraig Goch*_. Wales's dragon had attacked Northern Ireland, who had been thrown somewhere down the corridor, having presumably landed on his arse and screamed down the hallway, but had made rather a substantial mess of England's house whilst doing so. Rather than be immediately concerned as to the potential injuries his brother Northern Ireland may have sustained in being attacked by a dragon, England was preoccupied being concerned for the general welfare of his house and, through direct correlation, his finance (which was okay, but could do without another year of unnecessary and expensive repair work).

_Y Ddraig Goch _was just about able to fit in the house and his head scraped the ceiling, bringing down flakes of wood and paint with every movement. His tail flicking about erratically behind him had already succeeding in knocking down everything standing near the doorway and began moving onto the task of scraping several layers of varnish from the only recently replaced door. Then there was the scratched kitchen work surface, which was scratched near to buggery because, presumably, _Y Ddraig Goch _had used it as leverage whilst whacking North into the corridor. Many of England's kitchen utensils lay on the floor, some clearly broken underfoot by the dragon's weight. Finally, was the torn up state of England's favourite carpet (though why he was stupid enough to have a carpet in his house anyway was a mystery that would never truly be solved).

_Y Ddraig Goch _was an exact life-sized version of the red dragon featured on the Welsh flag, though it would be far more accurate to say that the flag was a perfect replica of the dragon, being as the dragon came first. The dragon was the largest among the British Isles familiars, and despite having the appearance of a ferocious and violent beast, _Y Ddraig Goch _was by far the most peaceful out of all of them. He was, like Wales himself, a generally very calm creature that very, very rarely lashed out and even then, it was through very dedicated and hurtful provocation. However, when the dragon did dare to lash out, the results were usually catastrophically bad, and England could only be grateful that this wasn't one of those times. If it had indeed been one of those times, England's house would have been blown across the Channel from the sheer force of the blow (this was a tried and tested theory).

"Oh dear," stated _Y Ddraig Goch_ gently, "Sorry, _Cymru*_."

England glowered and felt a growl purr in his throat. It was perfectly acceptable for _Y Ddraig Goch _to apologise, that was fine, and, indeed, necessary. Had he not heard an apology at all come from the mouth of the Welsh dragon, England would have very readily gone off on a suicidal rant about how stupid said dragon was. However, the dragon had apologised, so England was saved his attempted suicide. What did annoy England was that _Y Ddraig Goch _had apologised to _Wales_ for destroying things that belonged to _England_. Where was the justice in that? Stupid, sneaky, rude bastard of a dragon!

"Don't apologise," assured Wales, gently stroking the dragon's shoulder, "It was North's fault."

No, it wasn't North's fault. North wasn't the one who'd torn up the kitchen work surface, carpet, ceiling and who was having a good go at the door through incessant flicking of the tail. North was completely innocent. Well, he was partly to blame for insulting the dragon and invoking Wales's fury but, still, that didn't change the fact that it had been Wales's familiar who had quite successfully gone about damaging England's lovely home. Needless to say, England was not particularly impressed with this.

"No it's not al-fucking-right!" yelled England, "Look at my bloody kitchen!"

Everyone turned around to observe England's kitchen. They did this not because they were obeying their brother, they wouldn't be caught dead doing that, but because they wanted to taunt him for his whiny whinging upon discovering how little damage had likely been done. Unfortunately, as they regarded the kitchen and the small pile of kitchen utensils rendered useless through the contortion produced by having a large and heavy dragon crush you underfoot, they did have to (silently) admit that the damage was perhaps worthy of England's whinging. Even then though, the brothers (minus North, who was still recovering in the corridor) had to mentally note that England's house had seen _a lot _worse.

"Och, it isnae 'at bad," spoke a voice, which would have been comprehensible, had it not been spoken at frankly frightening speeds in a (fairly soft, it ought to be noted) Glaswegian accent, "Yer kitchen's seen much waur an' that's jist when yoo've bin cookin'."

"James!*" exclaimed Scotland happily, clearly not expecting his familiar to turn up, "Where've ye bin?"

England stared blankly at the unicorn familiar, still trying to work out precisely what it had tried to say. He was pretty sure it was English, and he knew for a fact that, had James decided to speak with a deep Glaswegian accent, he wouldn't have been able to understand anything apart from the occasional word. Aside from trying to work out what James the Scottish Unicorn had said, England would be lying had he claimed that he wasn't at least partially distracted by trying to withhold loud and potentially suicidal degrees of hysterical laughter. England could, and had, coped with Richard speaking some accents that, coming from a lion at least, sounded utterly preposterous, but to hear a unicorn speaking with a Glaswegian accent? England nearly died from the stress his body was under trying to hold in his amusement.

James was very much the unicorn depicted on the Scottish variant of the United Kingdom Coat of Arms*. Golden, cloven hooves carried the unicorn's slim, yet clearly powerful, figure with ease and small tufts of snow white hair hid where the hooves met the soft unicorn's hair. James's tail was long and more akin to Richard's than that of a normal horse as it swirled about behind him as incessantly as that of _Y Ddraig Goch_. Around James's neck was a crown that acted as a sort of collar* and from it, a dangling golden chain could be seen flapping around on the floor in a helpless sort of manner. Upon the unicorn's head was a crown identical to Richard's* that sat just on the crown of his head before his golden, spiralling horn, which was perhaps one of the sharpest implements England had ever seen in his entire life.

"Hay* there, James!" shouted out Richard, who England had almost entirely forgotten was even in the room, "Wot've yuh bin up tuh?"

"Ah, naethin' much," replied James, giving Richard an amicable nod, "Braw accent thaur, mucker."

"Thanks!" replied Richard, a wry and appreciative smile on his face, "Yoo too, mate!"

England was partially astounded. Familiars were just popping up around his house after _Y Ddraig Goch _had damaged his kitchen and they were just expecting him to stand quietly and acknowledge them peacefully? The blasted cheek! Aside from that, North had just re-entered the room with a look reminiscent of the devil himself and, given that North had no official national animal (and therefore no familiar), he was probably much more likely than previously to go off on a rant about those present. England sighed, furious but resigned to the fact that he'd probably be receiving some angry letters from his government again on the basis that he'd spent the rest of his annual income on home repair work yet again (it was becoming a nearly yearly tradition, so why they just didn't give him more money to compensate was a mystery).

"I 'aven't got a flamin' familiar* ye bleedin' shite!" growled North, "'Ow wus tha' fair?"

"It wasn't meant to be fair," replied Wales simply, "Insult _Y Ddraig Goch_ and he attacks you, simple as that."

"Yeah, well it's gran' for yer lot wi' yer bleedin' familiars, innit?" grumbled North, a hint of sadness evident in his voice, "_Éire* _lets me borrow 'is but it isn't the same, is it?"

"To be fair," began England, with a sympathetic frown and reassuring smile, "Having them isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Sorry?" hissed Richard suddenly, glaring up at England aggressively, "Didn't kwhite catch that."

Now being faced with the combined glares of everyone in the room minus Northern Ireland, England began to feel increasingly as though he had not just begun to dig a hole, but had in fact found a rather large one and just jumped right on in without having to bother with the digging at all. James was shifting about quickly on his cloven hooves, as though getting ready to rear up, charge across the room and impale the impudent Englishman on the door (never before had the motto '_nemo me impune lacessit_'* been more appropriate). Meanwhile, to England's left, _Y Ddraig Goch _was looking less than impressed with the implication. England, sensibly, was now beginning to realise what an incredibly stupid thing he'd said (though, he'd argue, this is exactly what he meant when he said it).

"Well, it's just that," England fumbled over his words, because no matter what combination he strung together, they would likely enough get him hurt, "Well, sometimes, you just sort of… well…"

"Cat got yuh tung?" growled Richard, before adding the endearment-turned-threat, "_Bab_?"

Oh he was so going to die. Well, not literally. Nations had never really managed the 'dying' thing particularly effectively, as even the Roman Empire kept popping up now and again to lecture them on how his wonderful empire had left them with the lasting legacy of Latin and Christianity that pervaded almost everything, even if completely unconsciously. Though, the fact they couldn't die just made everything worse. For example, the concept of being attacked and beaten up by Scotland, James, Richard, Wales and _Y Ddraig Goch _with no hope of it all going away was not one that exactly made hope spring eternal inside the Englishman's chest. Why had he been stupid enough to open his mouth again? Oh yes, he'd been trying to comfort Northern Ireland. Well, at the very least, observing England's beating would give North a good idea as to why familiars weren't such a brilliant thing to have, not that this was much of a redeeming factor.

"Look, you're going to beat me up no matter what I say," began England, "Right?"

They all nodded. England cringed inwardly.

"Then can we at least go outside?" requested England, "If I'm going to have the crap kicked out of me, then I at least want to return to a half-destroyed house instead of a completely bollocksed one."

They went outside. North stayed inside. And watched through the window. Smiling.

_About ten minutes later…_

"_Fàtla génes?_"

England groaned, too preoccupied with his waking body to even hear the soft voice. He experimentally flexed his arms and legs and found that this was perhaps the lightest beating he'd ever had in his life. As he explored his body, he found that he had slight bruising on his left forearm, a couple of scratches along his right leg and a throbbing headache. So much for a beating up session then, England mentally remarked. He hadn't been expecting to wake up with his entire body aching, because as much as his brothers pretended otherwise, they did genuinely care for his welfare. A couple of scratches, a bit of bruising and a throbbing headache was basically the equivalent of what England would wake up with after getting completely bladdered, so it didn't really bother him to wake up in this state. What did bother him, is the thought that they may have knocked him out quickly so they could do things to his house. He sighed miserably.

"_Fàtla génes_?"

England's head turned sharply to greet the oddly familiar voice. He'd recognised the language as Cornish, one he knew fairly well, but barely ever spoke as no one outside of Cornwall really spoke it with any degree of fluency. Had it not been such a ridiculous question, England would have responded sarcastically with '_pur dhà, meur rás_'*. Even if the damage was minimal, England didn't exactly enjoy being attacked by his brothers, as it had the habit of bringing back painful and uncomfortable memories that he'd rather keep locked away forever. Still, the stupidity of the question was matched only in severity by the surprise on England's face when he saw what had asked him the question. Greeting his vision with ruby red eyes was an apparently very concerned white dragon.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" near-shrieked England (waking up with a white dragon that bears a terrifying resemblance to _Y Ddraig Goch_ less than three inches away from your face is not something England made a habit of).

"I'm the White Dragon!" it declared proudly.

"Who?" asked England.

"The White Dragon!" it repeated indignantly, "Forgotten symbol of the Angle, Saxon and Jutish settlers!"

It took England several minutes to process a response.

"Then why the hell were you speaking Cornish?" retorted England, "The Cornish were Celtic Britons and they still are!"

"_Taw távez_," came the mature response, "_Ty wókki_!*"

"Yeah?" queried England, unimpressed by the response of the 'White Dragon', who was claiming to be an ancient, forgotten familiar of England, "Well-"

CRASH!

"OH FUCK! HE'S NAE GONNA LIKE 'AT!"

England paused.

"_Gav dhýmm*_," began England, replying in Cornish, though still baffled as to why an Angle-Saxon-Jutish symbol would be speaking a Celtic Briton language (being as the two minorities were constantly trying to kill each other), "_Rez yw dhÿmm móz.*_"

England got to his feet in a neat and practised movement, quickly brushing the dirt and grime from his clothes. Clicking his fists and rubbing his palms together like an evil villain with evil thoughts going through his head (to think this was the nation with '_honi soit qui mal y pense_'* as a motto), England charged doggedly towards the house. He'd decided to disregard the bizarre white dragon claiming to be a long forgotten national symbol that spoke a language that it really ought not to, were its claims truthful. Deciding that he'd worry about it at some other time (which was a lie, because he never really thought about it again), England walked towards his door, ready to kick it in (cost be damned) and yell as loud as his lungs could possibly manage without collapsing on him.

Watching the Englishman abandon him once more, the White Dragon sulked quietly to himself, remembering the good old days when he fought _Y Ddraig Goch _and they were both well known in legends and myths and tales. Now, the White Dragon pondered ruefully, he was only remembered by English nationalists, who wanted a national symbol that wasn't stolen from another country or that invoked political unease in the Isles. Sadly, for the White Dragon at least, this group of English nationalists were widely regarded (even if some of them were completely normal) by the rest of the population as being full of BNP* nutcases who wanted to keep England 'pure'. The White Dragon sighed sadly and decided to plan his return, though, if he kept hanging around with the English nationalists regarded as BNP nutters, his return seemed like nothing but wishful thinking at best. Poor bastard.

_This was a request by _Tazzilicious _to do a chapter on 'animal spirits' of the UK which I incorporated with a news story that pops up every now and again to suggest sticking the Welsh dragon on the front of the Union flag (I'm all for it, but I love dragons, so I'm only slightly less biased than a Welshman)._

_England is usually represented by a lion, though some English nationalists have been trying to suggest we recapture and use the White Dragon (hence his small appearance at the end). Scotland is represented by a unicorn and, though he doesn't appear in this story,(in my mind) he also has a red lion - visible on the Scottish Royal Standard - called Andrew. Wales has the red dragon (suggesting otherwise would get you killed) and Northern Ireland has no official, or unofficial animal (though they used to have a Coat of Arms which featured an Irish elk and red lion). _

*_Scottish winter: being farther north, Scotland tends to be colder and get more snow than the rest of the United Kingdom_

_*this reaction was amplified in Scotland: in the last few years of Thatcher's government, she piloted the poll tax in Scotland, which was met with civil disobedience and rioting _

_*despised their former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher: as a rule, most Labour supporters and working/middle class people hate Thatcher with a vengeance_

_*Big Brother Award for 'Worst Public Servant': in 2004, Privacy International awarded Margaret Hodge the mentioned award for her support of controversial initiatives such as the Universal Child Database_

_*Fathers 4 Justice: a pressure group supporting fathers' rights with a penchant for dressing up in superhero costumes and parading about on famous monuments e.g. Buckingham Palace_

_*PMQs: Prime Minister's Questions/Question Time – where MPs can question the Prime Minister on various issues every Wednesday during a twenty minute session of the House of Commons_

_*English Tory MP: Stewart Jackson, Conservative MP for Peterborough (in 2007)_

_*boyo: whilst terribly stereotypical, I felt it ought to be included in at least one chapter, I apologise unconditionally to any Welsh person offended by this_

_*Richard: England's lion familiar is called Richard because it was King Richard I who first had a lion as the Great Seal of the Realm_

_*he wore a crown: the lion (representing England) on the UK Coat of Arms wears a crown (the unicorn represents Scotland) _

_*secund largist populayshun outside London: Birmingham is the UK's second largest city in terms of population, being the only city other than London with a population of over 1 million _

_*Y Ddraig Goch: (Welsh) the Red Dragon_

_*Cymru: (Welsh) Wales_

_*James: Scotland's unicorn familiar is called James because the Scottish unicorn became part of the UK coat of arms when King James VI succeeded Elizabeth I_

_*Scottish variant of the United Kingdom Coat of Arms: Scotland has a different version of the Coat of Arms, but the differences aren't massive, Wikipedia it_

_*a crown that acted as a sort of collar: most legends depict unicorns as territorial, aggressive and very, very dangerous, so the unicorn is chained – hopefully you know understand why Scotland is represented by the unicorn_

_*crown identical to Richard's: the unicorn is only crowned on the Scottish variant of the coat of arms_

_*hay: hey (as a Brummie myself, I can confirm that 'hey' and 'hay' are almost indistinguishable from one another)_

_*the conversation here between Glaswegian James and Brummie Richard refers to the fact that Glaswegian and Brummie accents are constantly perceived as being stupid and horrible sounding, something neither Glaswegians nor Brummies understand_

_*aven't got a flamin' familiar: Northern Ireland doesn't have a national animal, or even a de facto national animal (if you're Northern Irish and think I'm talking bollocks, please let me know)_

_*Éire: (Irish) Ireland_

_*nemo me impune lacessit: (Latin) no attacks me with impunity/no one can harm me unpunished – it is the motto of the Order of the Thistle_

_*fàtla génes?: (Cornish) how are you?_

_*pur dhà, meur rás: (Cornish) very well, thank you_

_*taw távez, ty wókki: (Cornish) shut up, stupid_

_*gav dhýmm: (Cornish) excuse me_

_*rez yw dhÿmm móz: (Cornish) I have to go_

_*honi soit qui mal y pense: (Old French) evil to he who evil thinks – the motto of the Order of the Garter_

_*BNP: British Nationalist Party, hated by everyone but its supporters_


	13. 18th January 1566

**Thanks to **Korean Boron**, **HoshiUta**,** Tazzilicious **and **Silverwhitefoxe **for reviewing.**

**At the request of **Tazzilicious **and **ThE-faInTinG-faNGirl**.**

**A request has been put forward for the England riots, but having read some of the comments on fictions about these riots, I've decided to wait until the riots cease completely. As an Englishwoman in one of the affected cities, I am not personally offended by the idea of fictions being written about these events, but as some others feel so strongly about this, I've decided to respect their views.**

**Thank you for reading, and please review.**

_How England and Wales may have reacted to questions put to them by their Queen and their new crew._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**18****th**** January 1566**

**The English 'rogue state'**

_Shortly before midday…_

"So?"

The question hung on the air and sat there and swirled about, demanding attention with the same sort of vigour a crying baby would go about demanding to be fed. As such, England had very little choice but to eventually answer the question. He would blame his delay on indecisiveness, but that would have been an outrageous lie. He had already made up his mind and so the only possible explanation as to his tardy response was that it was the fault of the person to whom he was speaking. England had long felt, and voiced, the views of his people with regards to the monarchy; throughout Bloody Mary's entire reign, he had seethed with hatred for the woman*. However, now, under a very popular monarch*, England found these feelings portrayed in ways that, to him at least, were a bit freaky. He often found that he couldn't so much as look at good Queen Bess without palpitating like he'd suddenly been struck down by some disease or another.

"England?"

The tone was unmistakable. England shuddered slightly, hearing the undeniable threat deep in the rolling voice of his Queen. He threw his head up immediately to meet her startling gaze and, though he would be pained to ever admit it, it took every fibre of strength in his body not to avert his eyes from those brutally pragmatic orbs. She was thirty-three and England was, though he would never ever admit this to anyone directly, enamoured with the woman. Queen Elizabeth I was an amazing and powerful speaker, England was sure that he had never heard someone hold such a mastery over a crowd before in his life. She was not the most beautiful woman on the planet, though her portraits might perhaps mislead you into thinking so*, but she was certainly one of the prettiest specimens England had ever laid eyes on (though how much this view was influenced by his people was entirely debatable). England was unable to hold a conversation with her without his heart fluttering like a bloody butterfly.

"Aye, Ma'am."

It was a private meeting between Queen Elizabeth I, England and Wales. This was unusual. It was unusual in only one respect, and that was that Wales was present*. The vast majority of meetings between the incumbent Queen and her nation took place with the Queen's council of advisors also present, and even then, England was there as a nominal, traditional thing and would have had his opinions frequently overruled were it not for the efforts of the red-headed Tudor. Other meetings, less regular in number, though equally as significant, occurred between the Queen and England in private with all others being expelled from, not only the room, but quite often the building itself. It was probably, England pondered briefly, why the advisors held so much distrust towards him. Still, England didn't really care much for the opinions of the Queen's advisors anyway, being as she was not un-inclined to ignoring them completely.

The meeting took place in a large, empty hall made of stone which produced an eternally cold temperature, even in the few weeks of summer when the sun would scorch the small collection of isles. Archways fashionable to some slightly earlier period flung themselves into the ceiling to form a rather fantastic and impressive room which guided the eyes easily to its central focus. At the far end of the room was a large wooden chair made of heavy oak which was ornately furnished with the finest pillows and cushions and rugs, so as to make it bearable to sit on. A long red carpet ran through the room, acting as though a major artery to the otherwise cold, oppressive hall. Banners, perhaps larger than wholesomely necessary, fluttered behind the wooden oak throne heralding the Queen's colours and arms on vibrant sheets of bloody red.

"Thine thoughts," repeated the Queen, a hint of her short temper beginning to bubble away beneath her increasingly impatient tone, "Prithee."

England smiled nervously and passed an anxious glance sideways, meeting the eyes of his older brother. Whilst Wales was, generally speaking, laid back to a point where you could easily have mistaken him for Ireland, there was an undeniable disclosure of anxiousness repeated in the Welshman's eyes. The two of them were, with very good reason, scared of their monarch, or, at least, of invoking her anger. It must have been the Tudor blood* that unnerved them. They were not scared of Queen Elizabeth I herself, as they both knew that she held her Kingdom, particularly her dear England, in so high a regard so as to be unable to cause them any degree of harm herself. They were, however, afraid of what reaction they might be greeted with after England gave their response.

The offer was essentially to become a privateer, rather than what England was at the time, which was a pirate. The Queen had been, not all that quietly, supporting the Netherlands in his rebellion against Spain, and as part of this support, she had been offering Dutch privateers safe anchorage in English ports. This had given her additional ideas. After all, Spain was far too rich and powerful for his own good*, was Catholic to boot, and the Queen could quite easily defend herself by arguing that she had no control over English pirates, who would (albeit secretly) actually be privateers commissioned by the Crown to help the Treasury. It was a cunning plan, by all accounts, and so the question had been thus posed: did England want to become a privateer, and receive protection when in home waters? Or would England opt to remain a pirate, vulnerable to arrest on all sides?

To England, of course, the response was a simple one, and it was 'nay'. Privateers had to hand over a percentage of their booty to the Crown, which was not a problem being as England was already in the habit of sharing his share with the Queen. The truth was that England may as well have already been a privateer. He was given small, secretive amounts of money by the Queen, he never attacked English, Welsh or Irish vessels* (and was not stupid enough to think of attacking his eldest brother Scotland's) and he always shared his booty with the Queen anyway. Regardless of these facts, England found that he wanted to remain a pirate on a matter of principle. Perhaps it was the idea of breaking the law and being liable to face death if caught, or perhaps it was just that being a privateer made him sound like a loyal pet of some description, either way, England had long since made his mind up.

"I must kindly decline," sighed England, almost breathless from his nervousness, "Ma'am."

Wales and England watched with a palpable nervous trepidation as they watched Queen Elizabeth I arch one of her eyebrows high into the sky, evidently bemused by the response. Thankfully, she were apparently not offended or surprised by the answer, and this meant that she was probably not going to shout at them very loudly and threaten to have them locked up in the Tower*. Good Queen Bess, for all her short-tempered-ness, held a fondness for the personifications that her predecessor had not shared. Whilst Queen Elizabeth was less likely to kill you on the spot for being a practising Catholic (normally reserving this right for people who were Catholic and plotting things against her), Mary had been more than happy to waltz about killing protestants left, right and centre. This was because, unlike Mary, who seemed to care more about religion than the overall state of her country, Queen Elizabeth seemed to have a genuine respect and love for the country she ruled.

"I shall not insult thee and profess to understand wherefore* thou wilt remain a pirate," began Elizabeth, an honest smile on her face, which soon turned into a wry smirk as she continued her conversation, "Though I believe I may trust thee."

"Believe?" queried England with a copycat smile on his face, "Why, ma'am, I am wounded!"

Wales watched the pair exchange smiles and rolled his eyes emphatically. It was like they had forgotten that he was even there, which, as a matter of fact, they actually had. Wales was quite sure that he could have walked out of the room at that very moment and neither of them would have noticed until the end of the meeting. Thankfully for Wales's continued acknowledgement, the meeting did appear to be steadily drawing to a close. After all, there was only so long that England and Elizabeth could share grins before realising that there were, unfortunately, more pressing things at hand. For England, these more pressing concerns involved briefing his new crew, which he was not entirely all that happy about having to do.

_Sometime later that day…_

England and Wales had gathered their crew together in the orlop of the ship, though this was actually a lie, as it was England who had actually done all the gathering. They were in the orlop* at England's request, as it was his bizarre habit to have meetings in very private areas, the orlop therefore being the greatest area of a ship in which to have this meeting. They had, without too much hassle, successfully elected England as Captain and Wales as Lieutenant and, for simplicity's sake, England was known as Captain England, and Wales as Lieutenant Wales. The small group of sprogs* on board had elected the experienced buccaneers* to positions of power and it was not mere coincidence that these buccaneers just so happened to have served with England on previous misadventures.

With the positions of power sorted out and the number of shares agreed, England decided it was about time to lay down the rules. Contrary to what the other European nations seemed to think, or, at the very least, what England allowed them to think, England ran his ship with a degree of control that was bizarre to anyone who had not served as a member of his crew. Had the other European nations ever so much as caught a glimpse of the true order behind England's ships, they may have thought the man civilised. This view, however, would severely damage England's reputation as a pirate to be feared like no other, and so England defended his ship several degrees more fiercely than his fellow neighbours did their own.

Adorning a style of clothing that was caught in an uncomfortable place between Elizabethan era fashion and what would later be referred to simply as 'pirate' clothes, England decided to address his new crew. Wales, having taken part in a few of England's sporadic voyages already, knew what needed to be done and pulled a large, unhealthily heavy book from behind a barrel of what everyone in the orlop incorrectly assumed to be full of some form of alcohol. The barrel, not that anyone in the crew except England knew this, was full of fresh berries. Quite why the barrel was full of fresh berries would be questionable, if it the fresh berries were not harmful to human health when eaten. England was steadily building up a reputation for creating food that could kill, though no one on the European mainland had yet suspected that perhaps it was entirely intentional.

"Alright, alright," began England, waving his hands around to shush the rabble before him, "Listen up! You all know me by reputation."

The group nodded fiercely. They had all heard of Captain England's reputation. He was not precisely well known for showering his crew with flowers, so they had been told. What the majority of the crew did not know was that many of these rumours had been horribly exaggerated by, not only foreign crews, but also by England's own crew who had been actively encouraged to spread the very worst rumours they could imagine about the tyrannical pirate, Captain England. By the end of their voyage, those that had not died during the adventure would be returned to England safely with more jewels than they had previously imagined and with a much better view of the 'murderous bastard' England.

"An' several moons 'ave pass'd since I last 'ad fresh blood aboard me ship," added England, almost as an afterthought, "So to avoid any misunderstandin's, I'm gonna tell you how I run things on me boat. Wales!"

Wales hastily turned to the first page of the massively heavy leather-backed book that was England's unnecessarily large rulebook. There were two things Wales observed mentally as he turned the stained, aged pages of the book. The first of these observations was focused on how bizarre England's accent had become. Had Wales any sense of English geography, he may have recognised it as a very unusual mixture of Bristol and Somerset, a bizarre combination that seemed to eradicate England's ability to correctly speak his own language (England would contest this, claiming that he was speaking as he always would, just that the accents made it sound as though he were speaking incorrectly). The second of Wales's observation was just how burning the sensation in his heart was to throw the blasted book out of the bloody window. He did not, of course, throw the book out of the window, though this was almost entirely because the orlop had no windows.

"Rule One," England began, "Fightin'."

Some of the crew, for reasons unbeknownst to all but themselves, started to laugh heartily. England felt a growing concern in his stomach. Perhaps his reputation had become so bloody that the only people who wanted to join his crew now were psychopathic bastards with really very sadistic streaks. If this were the case, England was already plotting their demise. England would have no sadists aboard his ship. It was perfectly acceptable to cause other people (notably Spain) pain, and even to take a small amount of pleasure from it, but to laugh at it was a sickening practice that England simply would not tolerate on board his vessel. He himself only pretended to laugh heartily at others' suffering on the basis that he had a reputation to keep up, what excuse had his crew?

"No fighting," England stated, hand tightening threateningly around the hilt of his sword, "It's antisocial and it's a good way to lose an eye."

The room fell silent. The elected officers knew England well enough to know that he was far too serious and dogged to cross, whereas the inexperienced sprogs looked nothing short of completely confused. According to the rumours they had heard, England's ship was more like a floating boxing ring than it were an actual pirate ship. Looking amongst each other and sharing equally perturbed expressions, that the officers had to try their hardest not to laugh at, the recently acquired members of the crew rapidly had their attentions distracted by England continuing his lecture.

"Rule Two," England continued, "Games."

The ship's orlop erupted into cheers.

"No Games," interrupted England, glaring at his crew to see which of them would be stupid enough to dare challenge his newly elected authority, "I'll have no gambling on this ship. If you look after your pieces of eight, your doubloons will look after themselves."

The crew, even the experienced officers, frowned in confusion. What in God's name was the man talking about? Money was no more capable of looking after itself than Scotland is of not raining for a month. They had heard, in their rumours, that this Captain England was a fearsome fellow who was a bit rocky in the head, but they had never conceived the possibility that he would be silly enough to suggest that money was capable of looking after itself. If money were indeed so capable, pirates would be out of work pretty quickly, would they not?

"Rule Three!" declared England, apparently quite enjoying laying down rules and not being questioned, "Bedtime is eight 'o' clock sharp."

Wales frowned slightly and examined the book himself. England was lying. The rulebook clearly stated that bedtime was nine 'o' clock. The sneaky man had cut down their bedtime by a whole hour. It was little wonder the officers who had served with England before were looking so confused. The inexperienced crew members, on the other hand, were looking less confused, and more as though their brains had exploded within their own skulls. Their eyes were wide and gazing upwards at England in what could only accurately be described as complete disbelief. Their mouths were so far open that they probably could have caught fish and the silence that had descended on the room was less out of respect for the Captain, and more out of complete and utter incoherence.

"I don't want to see any of you lads overtired," began England, "Alright?"

The officers and crew were now convinced that their Captain had either gone insane, or was pulling their legs. The rules themselves made complete sense and were unquestionable. What _was_ up for debate, however, was England's additional little comments. Any man who even suggested that money could look after itself clearly needed his brain looked at, and, aside from that, England was supposed to be the most dangerous English pirate to haunt the oceans. The green-eyed, blonde-haired man was not meant to be actively concerned for the well-being of his crew and giving them an early night so they did not collapse of exhaustion later in the day. This was _not _what the crew had signed up for. A brave hand threw itself in the air to question the man.

"What if we breaks any of thems rules?" snorted the sprog, "Do we get sent to bed early with a smacked botty?"

England frowned, confused.

"No," England explained with a completely straight face, "We maroons you on a desert island, we leaves ye there with no water to drink, no fruit to eat, no animals to kill, no trees for shade, we leaves ye with a bottle o' rum and a loaded pistol. Now, the choice is yours: ye can starve to death slowly, or ye can end it all swiftly."

Now it was the crew's turn to frown. They had heard of this 'marooning' business before, but they had not ever heard it described in quite such an unpleasant way. It was bizarre, they found, seeing the Captain describe something so horrible in such a straight voice. It was clear to the crew that Captain England was not particularly bothered by the cruelty of the punishment, and saw it as fair and just. Therefore, the crew member who had asked the question slowly placed his hand down and remained quiet. It was becoming clear that perhaps the bloodthirsty rumours were not as untrue as they had foolishly began to suspect.

"Alright then, lads," began England, "Get movin'."

Having been terrified half to death by England's rather in-depth description of the wonderful art of marooning a fellow human being, the crew practically ran out of the orlop. England watched with a wry smile as they scampered upwards and onto the main deck. It had been a good while since he had last had such an eager crew: he was beginning to think them an extinct species. A small cough drew England's attention to Wales, who was still holding the unnecessarily large rulebook (which was unnecessarily large in that it only actually had one page of written rules, the rest being general notes). Wales, apparently amused by England's performance, gently closed the book and lay it to rest against the barrel of fresh, and poisonous, berries.

"What?" asked England.

"Thou." nodded Wales simply.

"What?" repeated England.

Wales simply rolled his eyes and sighed emphatically, before slowly walking away and making his way up onto the main deck. England, left behind in the gathering darkness, simply stared at the ladder blankly. What on Earth had that been about?

_This is a rather shameless rip-off of the _BBC's 'Horrible Histories' _series, in which the Pirate Rulebook is read out. It is a light-hearted introduction to Queen Elizabeth I and the World of Piracy. Both Pirate England and the Good Queen Bess will make other appearances, this is just a small introductory chapter for them, which can also act as a relatively upbeat, historical chapter._

*_seethed with hatred for the woman: she wasn't called Bloody Mary for inventing a famous cocktail, but is widely known for losing England's last foothold in France (Calais), marrying a Catholic (and being a Catholic) and murdering protestants_

_*under a very popular monarch: the list of monarchs we like is very, very small and if Charles becomes King, this will become astoundingly obvious_

_*portraits might perhaps mislead you into thinking so: like most monarchs, her portraits aren't 100% accurate and were designed to give a more appealing image to the public (what's changed?)_

_*Wales was present: Wales was annexed by King Henry VIII due to the 'Laws in Wales Acts' of 1535 and 1542, as Wales was annexed from such an early date, Wales is not represented on the Union flag or even the Coat of Arms _

_*Tudor blood: all of them besides poor little Edward (who was bedridden most his life) were short-tempered _

_*Spain was far too rich and powerful for his own good: back then, Spain was a European superpower and a very dangerous country to get on the wrong side of, aside from that King Philip was earning ten times more than the English monarch_

_*English, Welsh or Irish vessels: technically speaking, Good Queen Bess was the Queen of England (Wales) and Ireland, though Ireland (I believe) spent a lot of its time trying to contest this view_

_*the Tower: referring, of course, to the infamous Tower of London_

_*wherefore: (Early Modern English) why _

_Note on wherefore: 'Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?' is commonly misinterpreted to mean 'where are you?' whereas Juliet is actually asking 'why he is Romeo?'_

_*orlop: the lowest deck on a ship, usually used for storage_

_*sprog: an inexperienced pirate with little to no experience on a boat_

_*buccaneer: a pirate_


	14. 16th August 2010

**A huge thanks to **Korean Boron**, **HoshiUta **and **Tazzilicious **for reviewing every chapter and to everyone for having patience with me for the past two weeks or so.**

**Updates may be slow, but they will come, rest assured. This is a very upbeat one to counter the next one which will (depending on what you guys think) be either the England Riots or 7/7.**

_How Wales and Scotland may have responded another farcical study._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Third of adults 'still take teddy bear to bed'**

**16****th**** August 2010**

It was a Monday in the United Kingdom and so the outlook of the four nations comprising said Kingdom was somewhat mixed. There were, obviously, thousands of children and teachers and students and MPs freed up from school (Parliament is arguably the same thing) thanks to the wonderful, and very much loved, Summer Holidays. For the rest of the population, however, it was just another Monday, and another Monday where they'd have to get up at some ungodly hour in the morning to go to a workplace that they, often enough, hated and face work colleagues who they wanted little else but to punch in the nose. Therefore, the three nations comprising the isle of Britain were in what could be described as the least conducive mood ever to have graced the planet Earth.

Scotland and Wales, for reasons unknown to all but themselves, were in England's house. Given that they'd spent several hundred years either avoiding the place with a dogged vengeance or trying to burn it down in retaliation for some of England's lesser reported crimes, why precisely they chose to spend so much time in his house was a questionable point. The three other UK nations visited England in his home with the same degree of persistence as England drank tea, in that this was most of the time. Of course, if there was anything to be said for England's brothers with regards to their house-visiting, it was that they never entered the building through any means other than breaking something down, that they were never expected, and that they were almost always entirely unwelcome.

It was about five 'o' clock in the morning and so, yet again, what purpose the two Celtic brothers had for snooping around England's house was another mystery. A further, perhaps more mind-boggling surprise was that Scotland and Wales had entered into England's house by the front door after unlocking it with their keys. Had England been awake, he might have tried to call in the army, or fire Trident*. This sort of response may have been seen as entirely unnecessary to anyone who didn't know Scotland. What would have terrified England into this sort of 'over-the-top' response was the fact that Scotland never entered England's house quietly, at least, not unless he was either being sensitive to his younger sibling's needs (this had happened so few times you can count it on one hand) or was planning, or plotting, something.

"Why're we here, Scotland?" asked Wales, copying his brother's movements as the pair tip-toed around the house as though it were full of under-floorboard mines that were ready to blow as soon as they sensed their presence, "You know I've got other things to be doing."

Scotland pivoted around on his heels and regarded Wales with a look so sardonic it would have made England weep with pride and with a scoff so critical that it would have caused the entirety of Parliament to drop dead from shock. The look and scoff was for one reason and one reason alone, that reason being better explained in the form of a question. This question was 'what other things exactly?' Wales's quieter nature did little but earn him a reputation amongst his brothers for doing very little and having very little to actually do. If anyone had ever suggested that Wales might have even one gang, England, Scotland and Northern Ireland may very well have laughed themselves to death, so ridiculous the idea would seem to them*.

"Well, Ah was talkin' to England on th' phone yesterday, an' he sounded a bit, y'knaw, upset," explained Scotland, continuing his tip-toeing towards the staircase at the end of the corridor that lead to England's room, "So Ah was thinkin' we shoods see whit was botherin' him."

Wales paused.

"You do realise invading 'is room at five 'o' clock in the morning might bother him?"

Scotland paused. Wales had a fair point. England would be intolerably bothered by their plan to invade his room at said ungodly hour in the morning. If he were upset in anyway as well, then this effect would be multiplied by an incomprehensibly large number, and he would be the most bothered thing you could ever fail to imagine. Whilst this knowledge would normally have made any other person decide against further action, Scotland seemed to completely disregard this titbit of information and assume that he knew better. Besides, Scotland mentally reasoned, since when did Scotland exist to help and nurture his younger brother? That's just not how this particular dysfunctional family worked.

"He willnae mind." lied Scotland.

England's House was, as it was sometimes in the habit of being, mostly empty. Mostly, of course, because there was a constant stream of mythical creature traffic throughout the house (hence the need for a cat flap). Whilst the mythical creatures were normally entirely unbothered by the presence of any of England's brothers – adopted or otherwise – they were, on this occasion, very flustered, perturbed and frustrated by Wales and Scotland. This wariness was immediately blamed on commands from England, as it was the man's habit, in times of great peril, to ask the mythical creatures to act as guard dogs. It took the threat of summoning _Y Ddraig Goch_ to shut the damned things up and convince them to stay that way.

Scotland had always noticed how England's House was somewhat of a confusing place, and he had always thought that it mirrored the nation to a degree of perfection that was almost uncanny. There was, in some areas, a coldness, behind which one could usually find a surprising degree of warmth and cosiness, and then there were other areas where there seemed to be a very openly charismatic friendliness that seemed (to those who did not know England very well) almost completely un-English. Then there were the other areas, the areas which caused a stirring of great pride in Scotland and those were the magical, mystical areas, untouched by centuries of foreign invasion and modern advancements. There was amongst all the Isles nations a fascination with the mystical that seemed almost impossible to evade.

Walking up the stairs, Wales examined the red carpet, and how it was new. It had been a very astute, although very belated, decision by the Englishman, who had finally noticed that a carpet of any other colour had the incorrigible liability to showing up blood stains rather well. Therefore, England had (after years of warring with his brothers and anyone (or thing) that happened to irritate him) thought it a good idea to purchase a dried-blood, brown-red coloured carpet. The carpet had, the brothers found, been working rather marvellously and it was near-impossible for a guest to make out the blood stains from their punch-up last week. This was impressive as said punch-up had been initiated when England had (in a bout of drunken arrogance) suggested that Scotland's kilt may perhaps bear a striking resemblance to another item of clothing popularly worn by women.

As they walked along the – what the British would describe as stretching, but the rest of Europe would describe as 'surprisingly small'* - corridor, they observed the terrifying volume of faeries, nymphs and pixies (normally all but at war with each other). Small glistening star-like lights fluttered about the darkened tunnel of a corridor, flickering brightly and aggressively as the two intruders neared the room. Whilst the faeries, nymphs and pixies would never actively do something to Scotland and Wales (only England had ever been this stupid), they were certainly not to be trifled with, and so Wales and Scotland only continued their approach after assuring the little buggers that they were genuinely concerned for the welfare of their younger brother and that the worst thing they would do to him was tease him (which was an incredible reassurance to the mythical creatures in question).

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…"

Scotland frowned, turning to Wales and finding himself reassured by the equally as confused face that he saw. They were now standing at the entrance to England's room, somewhere both of them had spent a fair amount of time (though, by no means more than a day a decade). The wooden oak thing was thick – thanks to new fire door regulations* with regards to new buildings (or buildings that require frequent repair work) – but they could still hear England's muffled voice through it, and even then, they were able to make out a distinct concerned lilt in his voice that was, for all the man's incessant worrying, actually quite rare. They leaned in closer, ignoring the fact that they wanted to smirk as they observed the mythical creatures slowly leaning in towards the wood as well.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up… I know it's five in the bloody morning, but… oh hello!"

Scotland turned to Wales again and shrugged as he lip read the silent 'what's going on?' Besides, how the hell was Scotland supposed to know what England was thinking? Wales had been with the stupid man longer than he had! Surely it ought to be Scotland always asking Wales what the next ridiculous incident/accident/tragedy to befall their outrageously accident-international-incident-prone sibling was? Scotland rightfully assumed that Wales asked him on the basis that he was the oldest, though why being the oldest automatically made him more aware of England's going-ons was a mystery that could only be solved by the contours of Wales's mind, which were difficult to navigate at the best of times.

"This is uh… Ay wuz… uh… Ay wuz in yer 'otel in Liverpool on de fourteenth? Oh yis! Rewm forty-two? You've found it? Oh, excellent, Ay 'onestly can't thank you enuff! It's a 'uge weight off me mind, yeah, yup…*"

'Should we go in?' was the silent whisper that passed between Scotland and Wales. As they had both whispered this at the same time, this, understandably, caused some problems. Neither of them knew how to answer the question, and so the two silently nodded and resigned themselves to the fact that they would just wait outside until something interesting happened, before they'd go charging in to either comfort their snivelling mess of a brother (Former Empire, their arses) or mock him to such a degree that he would refuse to talk to another nation for at least a week or so (oddly enough, Europe was a much happier place during these few and rare weeks).

"Could yous send 'im down? Oh, yis, that'd be lovely, thank you very much… oh, uh… if yous juss send it ter Whitehall*, dee can pass it on ter me… their addy? It's…."

'Whitehall?' was the silent communication between the large crowd now gathered outside of England's bedroom. The questions were coming thick and fast and no one, save England and the person on the other end of the line, had any idea how to answer these questions. They all knew why England had been in a hotel in Liverpool (it involved Ireland holding a rather large party in England's Liverpudlian House a month earlier), but what precisely England had left in his hotel room, why it was so urgent that he retrieve it and why it needed to be delivered to _Whitehall_ of all places, were the unsolved mysteries: the unsolved mysteries that would not remain unsolved for all that much longer.

"Ta again, yeah, oh? 'Is name? George. After…? Nah, nah, after de saint. Yeah, ee iz isn't 'e? Can't see it be'n all dat important, really. Yis, tar again, or'rite, good mornin' ter yous tew. Bye, bye," there was a small pause, "Aw, she was nice."

BANG!

CRASH!

"WHAT IN HOLY HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?"

This was a question England asked more frequently than he asked America to stop butchering his language (which would have been impressive, were these requests not normally directed at his computer and Microsoft Word rather than the actual America himself). The question itself varied slightly between its near-daily usage – these variations often in the form of prolific swearwords or terrific bouts of sacrilegious insults - but the fact remained that it was utilised far more often than could be considered healthy. Were the three Britain brothers very religious*, the amount England took God's name in vain would be a very worrying thing. Thankfully, none of them really cared all that much about religion and so, the regular heaven-cursing stream of insults went unnoticed by England's brothers, who were long since used to this sort of behaviour*.

Scotland and Wales, used to breaking into England's room and seeing him in all sorts of states, were fairly surprised by what greeted them. They would, fairly often, find England pacing his room, unable to sleep. What was unusual though, or at least, what they found unusual, was that he was in his pyjamas and he had clearly been _trying _to sleep. The bags under his eyes were visible and vaguely concerning, and the speed at which he was pacing indicated that he was just about ready to drop to the floor and enter a catatonic sleep from nothing but sheer and complete exhaustion. Frowning with what an outsider may have mistook for brotherly concern, England's brothers moved in closer. They gently ushered him towards the bed, ignoring his discomfort at them seeing him in his pyjamas (they'd been with the man at football matches – honestly, they'd seen much worse), and did this so that they could find out what had happened to make their younger brother unable to sleep, if only so they could later taunt him with it.

Meanwhile, England was terrified out of his bloody wits. There were his brothers (heaven only knew what Northern Ireland was up to if he wasn't there) sitting on the end of his bed, trying to calm him down and find out what had happened. He couldn't tell them! If they found out they would tear him to pieces like the rabid, ferocious dogs they were. England could not allow them to find out the truth, if only because they would happily announce it to Ireland or France who would take nothing but great pleasure in shouting it out to the rest of the world and actively encouraging other countries to taunt him about it. This was the very last thing England needed, especially as there was already a frightfully long list of taunt-worthy subjects.

"Y'alright, England?" asked Wales, "You look a bit upset."

_A bit upset? A bit upset? _mentally bemoaned England, _If you find out why I'm upset then my life will be a living hell for the next bloody month!_

"Ah was worried when ye rang yesterday an' soonded a bit doon," elaborated Scotland in, what England felt, was a completely unconvincing attempt at concern, "So we thought we'd come an' see how ye waur doin'."

_Oh God, _begged England mentally (England never begged aloud),_ I swear I'll try my best to stop insulting you if you can make it so these idiots don't find out!_

What England didn't know was that Scotland and Wales knew full well just what England was trying to hide from them. They'd managed to work it out pretty quickly. 'Could a hotel send a 'George' down to Whitehall?' England never had important post sent directly to his home (knowing that his brothers were in the habit of ploughing through it), so England would collect the important documents/letters/parcels from Whitehall, which would seem bizarre if you didn't know England's brothers. So, England wanted a 'George' sent via post to Whitehall? There was only one thing this George could possibly be, and, as much as Scotland and Wales liked to tease their little brother, they did have to think about the international reputation of the United Kingdom. After all, would the UK ever be taken seriously again if it got out that George was England's teddy bear*?

"We know about George," began Wales, "We can guess what he is."

_Why aren't they smiling? _wondered England, _Oh Christ on a bike! What are the devilish bastards planning?_

"He's yer teddy bear," explained Scotland, "Isnae he?"

_Oh shit no, how the bloody crap in hell did they find that out? _queried England, an expression of utter despair on his face, _I'm going to kill North if he's behind this!_

George, it ought to be known, was a normal sized teddy bear of about twelve inches. He was an aged brown and his coat was abundant with tea stains and small dried-blood-ish stains, that went to show just how well-loved and significant this little bear was to the psyche of England. George had been there through many national disasters, providing a sense of security and safety that contradicted every other feeling that would, at the time, bombard the Englishman. It was for this reason that George was far older than any other teddy bear, of whom the average age was twenty-seven*, and carried nearly a hundred years of age. It was for the same reason that Scotland and Wales had managed to work out what George was – they had sat with England through enough disasters to deduce what the teddy-bear-shaped figure under the covers was.

"Uh… no, of course he isn't! Why would I – the almighty former British Empire – need a teddy bear?" asked England, trying to lie and failing in a fashion worthy of recording and posting on Youtube, "I don't have a teddy-bear! George is a nickname for the English Dictionary! Yes! The blasted bloody dictionary!"

Scotland and Wales rolled their eyes: he always had been a bloody awful liar.

"It's not true!" lied England emphatically, "George is _not _my teddy-bear, because I don't bloody have one!"

"Is this why you haven't been sleeping?" asked Wales, ignoring (with a finely tuned art) England's desperately pathetic excuse for a lie, "You can't sleep without 'im can you?"

England slowly shook his head.

"Ah read somewhaur 'at teddy-bears waur thaur to offer security an' safety," explained Scotland, gently tapping his forehead, as though in thought, before offering, "Do ye want us to sleep wi' ye? Woods 'at make ye feel better?"

England frowned. He then laughed, very loudly. Scotland offer security and safety for the English? This was a statement, not only worth boisterous, hour-long laughter, but also of open and unending ridicule. The Scottish had a long history of either providing troops to help the English kill each other, or to hand over (with an uncannily happy face) certain Kings to certain Parliamentarians during certain civil wars*. Aside from that, as nice as the sentiment was, England did not want them taking photos and later using them as blackmail (this had been done before). Though the thought of sleeping beside his brothers was somewhat pleasant, he would be long dead and dissolved before he dare even dream of admitting this to any of them (in much the same way that he pretended to be disinterested in having the affections of his former colonies).

"So ye dornt want us to sleep wi' ye?" asked Scotland, tilting his head and frowning, as though hurt, "Ye sure?"

England frowned. A few seconds passed. He pointed to the door. Scotland and Wales frowned and left through said door. Not, however, before promising to tell America.

_A study last year found that one third of British adults (you read correctly: adults) still sleep with teddy bears. The study was commissioned by Travelodge (a hotel firm) which has reunited over 75,000 teddy bears with their owners. This study was so ridiculous, it could not be ignored._

*_Trident: the name given to the British nuclear weapons, which, incidentally, are kept on board submarines _

_*so ridiculous the idea would seem to them: whilst I'm sure Welsh gangs exist, but the mental image seems to be quite ridiculous_

_*the rest of Europe would describe as 'surprisingly small': the British have some of the smallest houses when compared with the rest of Europe, which is odd, because we always thought our houses were really big_

_*new fire door regulations: there have been changes to building regulations (Europe-wide, I believe) in which buildings (including new houses) are expected to have a lot more fire doors _

_*here, England has slipped into a light Scouse (Liverpudlian) accent, as he is speaking to a Scouser, where cities or regions have distinctive accents, I will do my best to make England reciprocate them – offended Scousers can feel free to offer more accurate amendments_

_*Whitehall: where the very top brass of the British Civil Service hide themselves_

_*three Britain brothers very religious: a survey found that as a percentage of the population churchgoers were 18% in Scotland, 14% in England, 12% in Wales but 45% in Northern Ireland _

_**extra note:**__ England, Scotland and Wales make up the island of Britain, Northern Ireland is technically part of the island of Ireland (though not part of the Republic of Ireland) _

_*long since used to this sort of behaviour: the English have been doing this for a __**long **__time, during the Crusades, the French Army took to calling us '_les goddams_' because we were doing much the same thing_

_*George was England's teddy bear: named after England's adopted patron saint, St George_

_*the average age was twenty-seven: the study found that this was the average age of these teddy bears_

_*certain Kings to certain Parliamentarians during certain civil wars: when Charles I sought sanctuary in Scotland during the English Civil War (Parliament v Monarchy Edition), the Scottish just handed him over to Parliament so they could lob his head off_


	15. 9th August 2011

**Again, my unending thanks to **Korean Boron **and **HoshiUta **for reviewing, as always.**

**I'm fairly unsure about what sort of reception this chapter will receive, hence it being written in a style unusual for me. I feel I should also point out that five people died during these riots, that these riots were the worst my generation has ever seen (though how they compare to the riots in the 1980s, I can't say) but that they are over.**

**At the request of **Silverwhitefoxe**.**

**Please review and, if you like, request. I would very much like feedback on stories like this with, what I see as, delicate issues. Thank you.**

_How England and his brothers may have reacted to the spreading riots._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**9th August 2011**

**England riots**

"Nae, he's fine… it's naethin' we cannae handle… nae… nae… are ye bludy deaf?"

It had all started on Thursday. England had been sitting at home, watching the telly, as was his daily habit once the clock chimed six in the afternoon, and eating his dinner, which, contrary to popular belief, _was_ edible. England's brothers were in their own homes, as they had their own matters to deal with and couldn't be expected to be with England all the time, and so England was also home alone as the clock neared quarter past six. About to take a sip from his cup of tea, England felt a slight jolt in his heart. This was not a common or particularly normal sensation, but he had felt it often enough to no longer drop his tea.

On Thursday the fourth of August at quarter past six a young Londoner was shot in what England was quickly able to identify as Tottenham*. England, like all nations, felt the deaths of all of his citizens, but would only feel a sudden and uncomfortable jolt when it was manslaughter or murder. Therefore, England immediately placed his dinner table to one side and hoofed around in his pocket to retrieve his mobile phone, whereupon its discovery, he rang his contact within the police force. His contact was unable to give him a lot of information, as, according to what England was being told, they were still performing CPR. Eventually though, England's contact was able to confirm that the police had shot dead a young man named Mark Duggan whilst attempting to carry out an arrest.

"Ah've said it once, an' Ah'll say it again: he's _fine_."

Other than this, however, England's friend in the Met* had been unable to provide much more information beyond what England himself was able to piece together due to his being a nation. It was officers from Operation Trident*, England felt, that were responsible for the botched arrest. Being as specialist firearm officers* had been taken along, England assumed that the police felt the man in question was both armed and a threat to the general public. After gently massaging the skin over his heart, England mentally acknowledged that two shots had been fired*, though he would not know who had fired which until the information was made public, as this was beyond his capabilities of self-analysis.

After a peaceful and uneventful Friday, (though this is a lie, because nations never have peaceful and uneventful days: they are simply days in which the country does not experience a major catastrophe, tragedy or disaster) England was unsurprised by the idea that Saturday was going to start kicking off. At around five on Saturday evening, England felt a small stirring of anger in his heart, in, unsurprisingly, Tottenham. Communicating with his police contact once more, England had his suspicions confirmed: a large group of around three hundred people were protesting outside Tottenham police station. They wanted 'justice' for Mark Duggan's family and England's contact initially stated that the protest was peaceful and showed no real sign of turning nasty. That was, at least, until an hour and twenty minutes later.

"Wat? Naw! Who're ye anyway? … Ah! It's ye! Sorry! Naw, naw, we're all gran'… nah, 'e's doin' just gran'. Yeah, sorry 'e 'ad to cancel*… yeah… naw…"

At around twenty past eight on Saturday evening, England had felt a sudden jolt of pain in his heart that continued to throb maliciously despite his best efforts to alleviate it through massaging the skin over the capital. He remembers these sensations from the demonstrations held by students earlier in the year, though he was sure that they didn't ache in quite such a deep manner. He knew there would be violence, he could already feel it starting, could already feel the uncontrollable anger breaking out through forms of unreasonable rioting and harm, but was unsure what to do. If it was just something small, then calling his brothers would be pointless, but given that the throbbing in his heart was doing nothing but increase in levels of pain, maybe he ought to risk it anyway. When he felt his heart burning, he realised it was probably time to ring them.

By the time his brothers had arrived, it was quarter to eleven and England was to be found on the floor of the front room. He had been on his couch, he tried to explain to them late Saturday night, watching BBC News 24 for updates and the like, when he'd 'sort of rolled off'. The truth, his brothers quickly realised, was that the riots were far more serious than he was letting on. The rioters were burning cars and buildings and looting shops, making off with valuable and expensive goods. The night only worsened as reports began to come in of firefighters not only being unable to access the fires, but of also being threatened by the rioters. England was in a pained haze throughout the night, and was just barely aware of his brothers softly whispering words of comfort into his ears.

"I know you're worried, but we're 'ere for 'im, and we're doin' all we can to 'elp 'im. You needn't worry yourself… no, no, Northern Ireland's already offered, but thanks all the same."

England had not slept at all on Saturday the sixth of August and by the early hours of Sunday morning, England was bleeding heat like a very effective radiator. The usually pale skin was a vibrant reddish pink and his green eyes were hidden a lot of the time by his furrowed brow and contorted face. His hands were clasping each other and the material that separated them from his heart, as though eager to prevent themselves from ripping out the organ altogether. Small shivers occasionally fluttered down his body and goosebumps would suddenly rise up and stand proudly, indicating shock and lack of warmth and a fear that was visible only to those close enough to England to recognise it. Some fires burned until midday.

Things seemed quiet for a while, so Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland took the time to quickly update themselves on their own news, allowing England some time to himself. England used this time to wash and clean and contact his government. England's voice boomed throughout the house when it didn't crack like delicate flakes of glass. It was the loudest his brothers had heard him shout for a very, very long time. They only allowed him to continue because they knew how much he needed to vent that anger. The shouts were clear as they boomed throughout the house. Where 'the bloody fuck' was Cameron*? What 'in the name of all that's holy' was Boris Johnson* playing at? Why weren't 'the fucking wankers' there?

Sunday seemed to be turning out to be a quiet day until England's heart lurched once more in his chest at nearly half past six. Violence was breaking out in London again and it hurt England more than it ought have because he knew it was _his _youth attacking the city, not terrorists, not the IRA, not the Nazis. Scotland barely caught England as he doubled over at the top of the stairs. It was Enfield*, he told his brothers breathlessly when smoke wasn't pouring out of his mouth and nose. It was Brixton*, he told them as a dull ache pulled at the muscles in his arms, indicating where police officers had been injured and removed from duty to visit the hospital. They'd heard him try to stutter apologies for being so pathetic as firefighters responded to a blaze in the early hours of Monday morning.

Scotland, North and Wales began working a rota, so that they could nap and rest as one of them cared for the Englishman. England had not slept a wink, and was unable to fall asleep, despite resting in his own bed beneath the comforting covers. Wales was the one gently mopping England's burning, sweaty, clammy brow with a damp tea towel when Scotland Yard announced that these were 'copycat riots' that had little connection to the death of Mark Duggan on Thursday evening. Wales seethed with anger. These English youths were attacking their local areas out of little more than greed and impunity. All the while, Wales had to watch as his brother felt the consequences of burning cars, burning shops. Wales had to watch the heart-wrenching tear cascade down England's face as another of his proud, infamous red London buses went up in flames of a different shade of the same red.

By six 'o' clock on that Monday morning, North was able to sigh with relief as a calm normalcy descended on the capital. England looked exhausted and drained and hurt. It was a look reminiscent of the Blitz*, though only reminiscent. England tried to get up, but was forced back down into bed. Heavy black bags hung beneath the dulled green eyes, though a furious anger seethed quietly and distantly in the glistening orbs that were tearing up, though refusing to cry. His face was flushed and damp from sweat, though his skin felt cold to the touch. His fists were clamped around the blankets of the bed and when released, were sore from the pressure they had exerted throughout the sleepless, painful, burning night. North could do little but gently try to reassure the Englishman as said Englishman glared angrily at the end of the bed.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

"North! Can ye get 'at?"

Again, London seemed to become quiet. England's pain subsided to a very mild, almost invisible throbbing as London set itself about repairing some of the damage. England, against his brothers' joint advice, now they were all awake, got up and began walking about the house. They noticed, with clenched jaws, that his first action was to make himself a cup of tea whilst screaming angrily down the phone at some poor sod somewhere, who didn't seem to have the slightest clue where 'the holy fuck' Cameron was or where 'in hell' Johnson had decided to 'fuck off on holiday to' while his city was 'kicking off like it's the 1980s'*. Realising that England would not allow himself to be cared for or, as he put it, 'mollycoddled like a fucking baby', his brothers attempted to distract themselves by talking to their own government officials, who weren't helping distract them in the slightest.

Hoping fruitlessly that perhaps Monday morning had seen the last of the violent riots, the brothers had to withhold a sigh as they observed England clutch the left hand side of his chest once more. It was Hackney* this time, he tried to tell them. England was still sore from the Saturday and Sunday and had not slept a wink the entire time, so the riots seemed to have a much more profound impact on him than previously. His eyes, they mentally noted sadly, had finally broken down and released the building tears. England was probably not even aware that he was crying at half five when his mobile rang. Answering it from his bed, into which he had hastily been stuffed by his brothers who immediately set about gathering tea towels, buckets of water, first aid equipment and designing another rota, England listened to the relatively good news that poured down the other end of the line.

Boris Johnson, England was told, was returning to London from his holiday. England nearly forgot to thank the person who had rung him. Why the fuck had it taken three days of rioting for Boris Johnson to return to his city which was burning and hurting? England ranted angrily in between heaving breaths at whichever unfortunate brother happened to be there at the time. They weren't sure England even noticed when they swapped out, as Wales and North both found themselves being referred to as Alba or Scot, whenever England bothered to refer to them at all. It was a sad night for all of them and they couldn't tell whether the Englishman's increased pain was due to increased violence or simply due to the continuous nature of the riots. They received their answer at seven minutes past eight on a Monday which seemed to last forever.

"Sorry, I'm gonna 'av to love ye an' leave ye, someone else is ringin' de landline… yup, I'll let 'im know… yeah… 'e's sorry too, but ye gotta put safety first. Yeah, ye too… bye. … … Hello? Ah! 'Owaya France!"

At seven minutes past eight, England roared silently. Scotland watched with invisibly widened eyes as the Englishman's hands leapt from their position hovering over his heart to his right side. He clasped his left hand over the ribs that ran along the right hand side of his chest and his right forearm fell to his side, inanimate except for the occasional violent twitch that would be accompanied by a quivering lower lip and near-whimper. Scotland had immediately contacted England's government to find out what the hell had happened in the West Midlands, but was quickly told by a croaking, crackling England that riots had broken out in Birmingham. Scotland frowned, quietly observing that the two cities now embroiled in these riots were not only England's largest, but were in fact the two largest cities in the United Kingdom. Leaving the room to consult his sleeping brothers was later something Scotland deeply regretted doing.

Scotland's consultation with his brothers had been interrupted by a few ringing phones, which they had innocently answered, not realising how much time was slowly ticking by. It was when Wales turned on BBC News 24 that they realised no one was with England. Croydon* was burning, flames vibrantly lighting the streets of the London suburb as firefighters were shown struggling to even approach the building, so ferocious were its dancing flames. Northern Ireland rushed up the stairs to England's room and called down for his brothers almost immediately upon settling his eyes on his brother's weakened state. Wales and Scotland practically flew up to see what had happened and were struck dumb by the all too familiar sight of their younger brother holding his head in his hands in an attempt to hide the shaming tears that he didn't want them to see.

As they comforted him, it was becoming apparent that neither the Metropolitan police nor West Midlands police had any idea what to do. England mumbled it to his brothers over and over: 'they're just watching, they're just standing there, they can't do anything'. The images were replayed in England's head and he quickly forgot the difference between London's streets and Birmingham's. In both cities the police were standing still in their riot gear, watching almost helplessly as children looted shops and taunted them and threw petrol bombs at them and set cars and buildings alight in the name of nothing in particular. Shortly after half nine, North received a call that Cameron was returning from his holiday. They had to physically hold England down as he tried to grab the phone so he could swear and list profanities unsafe for human hearing down the line.

Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring!

"Scotland? Could you get that? I'm talkin' to the Kiwi!"

It was a Monday that seemed to never end and, indeed, at half eleven, England seemed to roar out mindlessly as Nottingham* fell prey to copycat rioting as well. It was spreading, just like before, England would mumble thoughtlessly when the words could fall from his mouth fully formed. The brothers tried to return to their rota but none were able to sleep as England's occasional cry could be heard sweeping throughout every room in the house. So the three Celtic brothers sat on England's bed, doing their best to comfort him to sleep, though all too aware that it was a futile effort. Especially when the clock declared Tuesday morning and the news revealed that the riots were doing little else but spreading further and wider.

Wales softly sang, gently stroking England's right forearm, which was all but paralysed from the violence in the West Midlands, which was focused on Birmingham, a sharp, growing pain that encompassed the entirety of his liver. Nottingham flared up violently and Northern Ireland caringly rubbed England's back as he leant forward and violently coughed specks of blood and black soot into the bucket which had been provided. Scotland sighed sadly and sympathetically as England tried to tell him that Bristol* was rioting as well and that everywhere the police could do nothing but watch and occasionally rush forward to disperse groups, only to watch them reappear elsewhere.

"I have to go, someain else's on th' line. Really? Weel, yoo're nae family anymair are ye, so shut yer trap! … Hello? Ah! Bermuda! Ah huvnae heard from ye fur ages! How are ye? England, well…"

At quarter to one on Tuesday morning, they watched rather helplessly as England cried out loudly, frantically caught between clutching his heart and his right side. Just as England's left hand settled for trying to scratch the skin away above his heart, Scotland observed his younger brother's eyes turning yellow. Jaundice, Wales explained with visible concern, was a clear sign that Birmingham was buckling slightly and clearly unprepared. After North returned from his phone call to find out what had happened in Birmingham, it was established that a police station in Handsworth* had been set alight. Ten minutes or so later, England cried out again, words incomprehensible as they fell from his lips. England's entire right arm fell limp and a searing pain in England's left shoulder blade informed his concerned brothers that yet another city had come under attack from copycat rioting, and that this city was Liverpool*.

At three 'o' clock in the morning of Tuesday the ninth of August, Croydon was ablaze yet again. The London Fire Brigade was struggling against four major fires, one of which was Lavender Hill: a police station set alight after police inside refused to leave the building despite the taunting of the rioting youths outside. England was a mess, his largest cities causing him pain that was more anguish than it was anger. Scotland and Northern Ireland left the room at six 'o' clock, deciding that they needed to prevent other countries from seeing England's true condition and that damage control was required if the world was going to trust them with the Olympics next year. Wales remained beside England, gently oozing comfort as the utterly exhausted man fought against a catatonic sleep that was silently sneaking up on him.

_11:32pm_

England's vision was blurred completely by tears. His entire body ached and throbbed and burned. His skin was recovering from its previously yellowing appearance as Birmingham seemed to be handling the trouble much better than before, though riots had seeped outwards into Wolverhampton* and West Bromwich*, where the police could do little besides watch. Nottingham and Leicester* were suffering the same, and since rioting had broken out in Salford* and Manchester*, England's expression had visibly become fearful. These were young, young people. There was one child as young as seven and the things they were doing horrified and terrified England as much as they were hurting him.

Salford and Manchester: a BBC radio car was set alight and a TV cameraman was attacked. City Centre, Birmingham: neither the Mailbox* nor the Bullring* nor the world-famous Jewellery Quarter* had ever seen so much riot gear in their lives. Central Nottingham: Canning Circus police station was firebombed. Coaches into Birmingham and Manchester were being redirected away from the city centre and the streets close to the centre were deserted save for the heavy police presence. South London: a twenty six year old man, who had been found shot in his car during the rioting, died in hospital. England's friendly with the Netherlands was cancelled. Performances in the West End of London were cancelled. It was a miracle that the Test matches in Birmingham _hadn't_ been cancelled.

England couldn't remember the last time he'd suffered like this. In the 1980s, it had felt better because he knew what they were doing was in anger at Thatcher. Indeed, England had been so angry with Thatcher back then that he'd taken part in the rioting despite the pain he himself was in. This time though it was far more complicated. It wasn't as simple as 'sheer criminality'*. The young people are out on the streets because their parents don't care, or can't control them, and there's nothing else to do because the government has cut funding for projects designed to keep the youth off the streets. These young people are getting a kick out of it. They are unchallenged in their actions and no one can stop them. The police are less numerous thanks to the cuts and are afraid of lifting a finger because they were so heavily criticised for being too heavy-handed during the G20 protests.

England sobbed helplessly into his hands. Birmingham, West Bromwich, Wolverhampton, Liverpool, Manchester, Salford. Leicester, Nottingham, Bristol and London. They all hurt and ached and burned. London was quiet now, but the police were tense and nervous, all 16,000 of them. He could barely breathe and when he did, smoke plumes would come out of his mouth. There had been hundreds of arrests: West Mids Police had arrested 87, Met arrests now numbered 685, 35 according to Mersyside Police and Greater Manchester had apprehended 47. He cried helplessly, not caring how pathetic he looked as tears cascaded down his swollen, beaten, red face, simply because it hurt him so much. He was terrified. Where else would it spread? How much worse would it get? When would it end? Would they take the Olympics off him? Would the other countries ever trust him again?

America had already warned his people to steer clear of Britain. David Cameron had had a _Cobra* _meeting, a _fucking _Cobra meeting and had decided to recall Parliament. Cameron was recalling Parliament in the middle of the Summer Recess. Northern Ireland had offered his fucking jeeps, the ones used to stop the riots in Northern Ireland, which were much more violent, much more of the time. Wales and Scotland had poured resources and police towards helping England, but he could see it faintly in the shadows of their eyes. His brothers were concerned about it spreading to them. They didn't want their cities in turmoil, not after providing hundreds of their police forces' officers to London.

England prayed, for them and for himself, that it would end soon. He wanted the pain to stop, but the dull ache continued heartlessly despite the best attempts of his emergency services, which deserved so much more than what they got, who deserved so much more respect and so much more love. Yet it didn't end. Birmingham was still rioting, and Manchester and Leicester. London had gone quiet but England didn't think it would last long. He hated every second of this and it felt like it wasn't ever going to end. He hadn't slept since Friday. He hadn't been able to fall asleep because the outrage at Clegg's appearance in Birmingham* and Johnson's chats with Londoners* had woken him as soon as he had dozed off. Why wouldn't it just stop?

"England?" whispered Wales softly, standing in the doorway, "England?"

"**They're still going." **croaked England.

"I know," sighed Wales carefully, "How are you feeling?"

England glared ferociously at him, but Wales was used to England's ferocity, and so ignored it as he approached the man's bed. Harrumphing slightly, England turned his head away indignantly, though immediately launched his head towards a bucket as a violent coughing fit quickly shattered his indignation. Once removing his head from the bucket, he stared upwards with yellow, red, green eyes from which tears continued to stream, almost entirely unnoticed by the usually very conscientious Englishman. Wales sat himself on the edge of England's massive bed. He gently reached out and began to stroke England's greasy, sweat-soaked, unkempt hair, watching with a soft smile as England leaned into the hand unconsciously.

"I can't remember ever feeling this before." began England softly, his voice a raspy whisper in the large, empty, dark room, where the only light flooded in through the ajar door, "My people are so, so angry with them. They're horrified, _and terrified_."

"I know," whispered Wales, "I know."

"But I'm so proud," explained England, his pride visible in his teary eyes, "I'm _so_ proud. They're organising clean-ups. My people. Londoners, Brummies, they're all doing it. Getting brooms and dust pans and they're organising clean-ups. I'm so proud of them."

"Ye shoods be," came a smirking smile from the doorway, "Stubborn as bulls, yer lot."

"Everyone's been ringin'," shushed Wales calmly, "Askin' after you."

"They're just worried about the _fucking_ Olympics." growled England, "They don't care about me."

"North's on th' phone to France now," explained Scotland, silhouetted against the light bleeding in from the doorway, "He sends his regards. He knows whit you're going through. North said he's ne'er heard him so choked up."

"We've spoken to everyone in the Commonwealth," assured Wales with a small smile on his face, knowing full well that concern from England's extended family meant more to him than the world, "I was speaking to New Zealand earlier, and Hong Kong, and Singapore, and India."

"She happy the cricket's still on?*" asked England with a brief smile.

"Course she is!" exclaimed Wales softly, continuing to gently brush his fingers against England's abused locks of hair, "You know what she's like!"

England smiled as it neared midnight. It would shortly be Wednesday. He sighed and leant back into his pillows. Would the riots continue? Probably, England noted with a pained grunt. These are the worst riots for a generation, the BBC had stated. England sighed, knowing it would be another sleepless night, and fearing what would come tomorrow, but praying with all his agnostic heart* that it would end sooner rather than later.

_There was genuine heartfelt outrage at the riots and they seemed to have entirely ceased. There are still some shops in tatters, hundreds of people have been processed through the Justice system (some courts stayed open all night to cope with the sheer number of rioters prosecuted), the politicians are still arguing with the police about who ended the riots, but they do seem to be over. _

_Five deaths have been connected to the riots: one Londoner was shot in his car, another beaten to death whilst trying to extinguish a fire outside his home and three men were killed in a hit-and-run in Birmingham. Having said all that, the news has repeatedly mentioned the efforts of communities and the general public. Some banded together to form defensive groups that would chase away rioters and some organised mass clean-ups. If there is one thing to be said of these riots, it is that they undoubtedly showed the very best and the very worst England has to offer._

_*Tottenham: an area of North London and home to the football team Tottenham Hotspur Football Club (colloquially known as 'Spurs')_

*_the Met: a common abbreviation of London's Metropolitan Police_

*_Operation Trident: a unit of the Metropolitan Police which deals with gun crime in African and Caribbean communities in London_

_*specialist firearm officers: only specialist police units are trained to use and carry guns_

_*two shots had been fired: it has been reported that both shots were fired by the police_

_*'e 'ad to cancel: FIFA had to call off England's friendly against the Netherlands, which was due to take place at Wembley_

_*Cameron: David Cameron, incumbent prime minister_

_*Boris Johnson: the incumbent Mayor of London, who everyone thinks is a bumbling idiot despite his Oxford education_

_*Enfield: the most northerly London borough_

_*Brixton: a district in south London_

_*look reminiscent of the Blitz: there is a very upsetting story about one building which had survived both of the World Wars, only to have been burned to the ground by the rioters_

_*kicking off like it's the 1980s: England hasn't seen riots this violent since the 1980s _

_*Hackney: a borough in north London_

_*Croydon: an area of south London_

_*Nottingham: a city in the East Midlands, which directly to the east of the West Midlands_

_*Bristol: a large city in the South West of England_

_*Handsworth: an area of Birmingham _

_*Liverpool: a very famous port city in the North West of England_

_*Wolverhampton: a large city north of Birmingham, it is the 13th most populous English city and, like Birmingham, is not considered part of the Black Country_

_*West Bromwich: the largest town within Sandwell, a borough sandwiched between Birmingham, Walsall, Dudley and Wolverhampton_

_*Leicester: a large city situated in the East Midlands_

_*Salford: a city within Greater Manchester, which is in the North West of England_

_*Manchester: one of England's largest cities and is located in the North West of England, fairly close to Liverpool_

_Additional note: Manchester is constantly trying to usurp Birmingham's Second City status but fails dismally because Birmingham has a much, much larger population (Manchester: 498,800, Birmingham: 1,028,701)_

_*the Mailbox: Birmingham's shopping centre for posh people, and also where BBC West Midlands can be found_

_*the Bullring: in the centre of Birmingham and is a very large shopping centre_

_*Jewellery Quarter: surprisingly, a lot of jewellery found in the UK actually originates from this one area of Birmingham_

_*sheer criminality: a phrase repeated at least three times by Home Secretary Theresa May_

_*Cobra: the name given to the (otherwise boring sounding) civil contingencies committee which deals with national crises, it is formed of security chiefs and senior ministers_

_*Clegg's appearance in Birmingham: Nick Clegg, deputy prime minister, was booed by crowds in Birmingham city centre, so much so that he had to actually leave_

_*Johnson's chats with Londoners: Boris Johnson spoke with some very angry Londoners who felt as though they weren't receiving enough protection from police_

_*she happy the cricket's still on: the Test matches between England and India have not been cancelled and are taking place in Birmingham despite two nights of rioting in the city centre_

_*agnostic heart: despite UK censuses showing high religious affiliation, church attendance is shockingly low, though this could be laziness as opposed to agnosticism _


	16. 16th December 1773

**Thanks to **O-Rachell-O**, **Fall in Snow**, **Korean Boron**, **Sofiz-Jackson**, **DarkusHart04**, **Anonymous**, **Half formed demon** and **Tazziliciouz**.**

**I am working on all requests, but I am quite busy now so updates will be less regular.**

**This was difficult to write and whilst I like it, I can imagine others might not. I would very much like to hear what you think of it. **

**I should just point out that this is set in the 1700s so the language will sound a bit 'posh' when they are speaking.**

_How England may have reacted to the Boston Tea Party. _

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Boston Tea Party**

**16****th**** December 1773**

Britain had only arrived in the Thirteen States yesterday. He would have been a bit frustrated with America's behaviour towards British shipments of tea and their consignees*, were he not faced by more pressing concerns; concerns which, more specifically, were focused on America's latest growth spurt. For America was in that annoying stage of life where communication is limited to indistinguishable grunts and conversation is a task best left well and truly alone. This would have been okay, had America not simultaneously got himself stuck in the stage where he thought he knew best and that everyone around him was not just incredibly stupid, but also spectacularly ignorant of his brilliance. Regardless of how much Britain loved America and his British Americans, they were leaning just over the wrong side of annoying a lot of the time.

"'M'uhn'gry."

Britain was actually quite pleased with himself for understanding that particular grunt. He had spent the past twenty-four hours trying to decipher America's frankly never-ending groans, moans and harrumphs, and was therefore pretty happy for having understood even one. It was, retrospectively, an amusing ten minutes that passed between America's grunted 'hello' and Britain being able to work out that that was what his young charge had been trying to say. Britain tried to recall a moment in his life when he was going through a similarly grunt-y stage. Oh wait, the only thing he could recall of that period was the Wars of the Roses and the Tudors, a period where he spent most of his time trying to ignore his pain or hide from his psychopathic ghost twins. So if Britain had never been through a stage like that, why was America suffering from it?

"Hungry?" asked Britain, confirming his theory, as though not quite sure he was right, "Do you want me to cook you some food?"

"NO!" was the deafening cry of a response.

Britain was immediately deeply offended. It was not so much the 'no' that had offended him, but rather the horrified and sickened tone with which it had been spoken. Britain may just as well have asked America if he would like to be hung, drawn and quartered*. Britain knew his cooking was not the best in the world – not that he would ever admit this – but it _was _edible and it _was _food. Besides, he overcooked his food intentionally because it was the British habit and he drank alcohol like a fish because the water was filthy, but beer and ale was clean. It was not Britain's fault that these were the habits of his people. Ungrateful Whigs*.

"C'n'da's c'k'ng."

Britain frowned, out of confusion more than anything. What language was that supposed to be? He knew that there were French and Spanish speakers in some of the colonies and that there were those Red Indians with their odd languages as well, but Britain could have sworn some part of that sentence was meant to be English. It certainly sounded English. Unless America had decided that he was going to stop speaking English and do something stupid like make up his own language. After a minute or so, Britain successfully worked out that America had been speaking English, but that his grunts had made the entire thing completely incomprehensible.

Nodding slowly, though still not having worked out what America was trying to say, Britain decided to make his way to the kitchen. Even if the little, ungrateful child did not want to eat his food, that did not mean to say that he could not rustle something up for himself. Naturally, Britain blamed France for this sudden hatred directed towards his culinary skills. France's influence in New Orleans and the French-Canadian Quebec had clearly contorted America's view of food and created a very strong bias against British cuisine. Britain had little doubt that Canada had been cooking for America, and this, plus New Orleans, undoubtedly biased America's taste in food against _very _well cooked food (Britain was loathed to say charcoal, as he had actually eaten charcoal before and his food tasted a damn bit better than that).

"Ma!"

Britain's left eye twitched involuntarily. This was France's fault as well. Being as France had stolen the father figure role in Canada's life and Scotland had taken the role of violent but lovable uncle*, this left Britain with very little left to claim for his own; not that Britain actually claimed 'ma' as his own. He had spent the past goodness-knows-how-long trying to convince Canada that he was his big brother, his adoptive older brother. Canada chose to ignore this fact, or maybe, as was more likely, Canada just could not comprehend the idea that anyone but a mother or wife was capable of beating up his adoptive father. Britain, having not worked this out, could only be grateful that America had not picked up the same habit.

"Canada!" exclaimed Britain, genuinely happy to see the little rascal, "How have you been? Has America been behaving well? Heaven knows what he thinks these days: I can barely understand what he is even _saying_."

"Things have been going well, yes," replied Canada, a small smile on his face, "But America can be difficult to understand at times. I thought he was speaking French once, but he was just asking when dinner would be ready."

"I am glad of it, but I cannot pretend it surprises me," responded Britain, "I am sorry that I cannot be here more often. Some older brother I am."

Canada simply smiles knowingly. Trust Britain to try and subtly push through the 'I'm your older brother' line again. Canada, of course, would never use 'older brother', because it was an ingrained habit to use 'ma' now, even though he also, on occasion, used 'sir'. He was fully aware that Britain was a man, it was a fairly hard thing to miss realistically, but the habit was so integrated into his mind now that trying to refer to Britain as his 'older brother' would probably require more effort than it was actually worth (despite Britain's complaints, he begrudgingly accepted the title rather faster than he would ever let on).

"How is George fairing?" asked Canada, who seemed to show a generally greater interest in the Royal Family than his louder brother, "I heard he is quite well-loved."

Britain smiled slightly and Canada quietly hid his own. The contented smile on Britain's face was enough to inform Canada that King George III – the only George to have reigned Britain and have been actually born there* – was well-loved and perhaps enough so to be remembered in future years*. There were really only ever three answers given when Britain was asked how he felt about his Kings and Queens. The first was a sly smile, or contented, weak smile, meaning that he liked them and regarded them fondly. The second was a pursed lip and disgusted glare, meaning hatred or anger. The last, and by far the most common, was apathy: he neither liked nor disliked them; they were simply there. Therefore, to see Britain smiling was a pleasant response to the Canadian, who did not really like to see Britain upset.

"He is very, very thrifty and he is very, very clever," replied Britain, the unmistakable tone of fondness in his voice, "He has essentially guaranteed the safety of the monarchy for hundreds of years* and is a very astute man. He is… good."

Britain was not lying either. King George III was a bizarre man at best, downright confusing at worst. He was shy, something Britain and his brothers admired in the man, but he was also stubborn, a trait which almost seemed to be passed down much like the crown itself (Britain could count the number of non-stubborn Royals on one hand, and at least one of them was so much of a pansy that he could barely be counted as a man at all). George was also very clever, being well educated and very witty. He was also one of the few Royals to date that married one person, stayed with them and then did _not _take a mistress. George III was a welcome change, if only because he was the closest thing to a British King they had had for a while.

Whilst Britain and Canada spoke in the kitchen, America was sneaking out of the house. This particular house was situated in Boston, a decision Britain would later come to regret, but was, for the time being at least, ignorant of. Were Britain in North America more often, he would have realised that these escapades were actually pretty common: America liked to wander off and move around his people, even if he did not communicate with them in anything more elaborate than a couple of grunts. When Britain finally did realise that America was missing, Canada's pleas to calm down went entirely and completely unheard, because, in the mind of the Brit, America was still a small, young thing that needed to be mollycoddled and kept safe from the nasty vicious world, which he knew to be more vicious than anything imaginable.

**Old South Meeting House**

**Boston**

America had been sneaking into the back of these meetings for a while now, no one really suspected the all-but-for-grunts silent teenager of anything, and so he was allowed to sit quietly and listen to the debates. The debates were concerning Britain's stupid laws regarding tea, which were, unarguably, stupid: America had overheard Britain saying so himself! On this particular occasion though, it would be more than just a discussion, it would be more than just sending the ships back without paying the damned tax, it was to be something that would later be known as 'direct action'. It was to be what would become the most famous tea party in the world – though to what degree it was actually a tea party is a debatable point, a _very _debatable point.

America and his fellow British Americans were really very angry with the British Parliament, and not just because it was full of idiotic fools who were entirely selfish (after all, that is just the nature of politics). They were angry because they were being taxed. They were not represented in Parliament and were being taxed, the way they saw it, no matter what sort of taxing this was, it was wrong and illegal and against the constitution. The vast majority of their boycotts and protests had resulted in what would, hundreds of years later be come to known as a 'government u-turn', but Parliament, and, more specifically, Prime Minister Lord North insisted that they had every right to tax the Americans, and that they would continue to do so. The Tea Act was the last nail in the coffin*.

The acts of the British Americans was not so much in response to the Tea Act itself, so much as the stupidity of Lord North. The Tea Act, at its most basic form, meant that the East India Company could export directly to the colonies. The company sold its tea to colonial consignees, who would pay a commission on the tea they received. However, the problem lay in that the Tea Act kept the Townshend Act (which taxed on the tea). Many members of Parliament wanted to remove the Townshend Act altogether, aware that it would only annoy the colonies, but being the all-intelligent Prime Minister he was, Lord North ignored their intelligent suggestions. Therefore, Lord North's surprise when the Americans started to fight the Tea Act was frankly laughable.

America himself had a surprisingly in-depth grasp of all of this, leading one to question precisely where his begrudging feeling towards Britain was coming from. America had spent a lot of his time talking – though to what extent moaning and grunting can be classed as so is arguable – to Britain about these taxes, and Britain spent the vast majority of his time – when he was not looking confused – agreeing. Britain himself felt that Parliament had no right to tax America, or anyone who was not represented, but, unlike America, accepted begrudgingly that Parliament was full of intolerant arseholes who would tax unrepresented people anyway: Parliament taxed people in _Britain_ who were not represented by a single MP*, so really the colonies had not a hope in hell.

"Where are you going?" shouted Samuel Adams* from the front of the room, "The meeting is not yet over!"

America looked around, with what would have been a bemused expression, were his face not equally as difficult to interpret as his grunts. His citizens, his British Americans, were leaving the room in quite large numbers now, leaving a very flustered and frustrated Samuel Adams to shout loudly from the front of the room in a rather fruitless attempt to return them to their seats. Quite how the idea had circulated so quickly amongst the room was a mystery never to be fully understood by historians in future years, but one thing was certain, Samuel Adams was not overly pleased that people were leaving his meeting – even if it were to impose what would become the most famous piece of direct action in the history of their nation. America followed, feeling the adrenalin begin to slowly pump through his body as he realised just what potential ramifications this action could result in.

**Boston Harbour**

**About ten minutes later…**

America was not sure he had ever felt anything quite like it before. His heart was beating in his chest with the same speed one would expect of a rabbit and it felt as though his veins were on fire, but he was not sweating or exhausted, just exhilarated. He was sure that the people around him felt the same thing; the adrenalin rushing through their veins with the same vigour as the ever present fear and joy. They were on three ships, all of which were full to the rafters with boxes of tea, and they were throwing the boxes into the harbour. America had been trained by Britain to respect the rules, but had he known that breaking them was so much fun, it would have been apt to predict that America would have broken the rules a lot more, a lot earlier.

The boxes were boring and plain and surprisingly light. They picked up what they could and launched it into the salty water below, occasionally watching with fascination as the water turned a bizarre brown shade, that resembled, disturbingly enough, dried blood. Once in the water, the boxes would float for a while and then gradually produce 'glubbing' sounds and sink slowly to the unseen floor. The boxes acted perfectly as tea strainers and so the water in the harbour very quickly took on the appearance of black tea, though the tea-seawater looked far less clean and far less healthy.

Nearby streets began to fill up with, initially, faint wisps of tea that quickly grew in intensity, until the smell attracted a fairly large crowd into the harbour. This small crowd gathered around to egg them on, being as there were very few people who thought that Britain was right to tax them. No attempts were made by any in the crowd to stop the protesters, despite a few discerning faces in the crowd. Instead, the crowd seemed to watch, as though hypnotised and as though feeling just as strongly what those directly responsible felt: those awesome sensations of breaking the rules and of doing something apparently awful, but intolerable _right _in every way.

In the middle of the faceless assembly was a man who went ignored by all present with the exception of just two beings. A young man towards the end of his teen years was having the bones of his hand cruelly bore down upon by the heavy hand that held it. This heavy hand belonged to a face which America knew all too well and as America's eyes fell on those of his caretaker, he began to realise what he was truly doing and just whom he was truly up against. His caretaker, the British Empire, had a face that was all at once surprised, wounded and furious beyond words. America knew though, in his heart, that what he was doing was right, and that Britain was wrong, and that was all he needed to blindly ignore his caretaker's presence and continue launching the boxes into the sea.

"Britain?" whispered Canada, "Britain, are you okay?"

Everything about his caretaker screamed discomfort. Britain's right hand was practically squeezing the very life out of Canada's left hand and clearly attempting to turn it into a liquid. The Empire's entire frame became, all of a sudden, very sharp and still, like he had been frozen in place, but the entire time, his arms were visibly shaking. His green eyes were wide with surprise and hurt but his mouth was pursed with anger and fury. To anyone who did not know the Briton, he looked as though he were perfectly okay, but to anyone who knew him and could read the tiny nuances in his body language, it was exceedingly obvious that he was just about restraining his rage. The only thing that stopped Britain having a shouting match with America right then and there in Boston Harbour was the fact that it would make a scene, and that was something Britain could never bear to do.

"I am going to walk home," stated Britain, his voice monotonous except for the waver of anger that occasionally broke through, "And I will want to speak to America as soon as you both get home, understood?"

Canada nodded and barely hid his relief when the constricting tension around his hand was released. He quickly sidestepped out of Britain's way as the Empire carefully charged and dodged his way through the gathering crowd with a face that could kill baby animals. Canada watched him go, concern and worry visible in the two violet orbs he wore on his face. Gazing back up at the ships, resigning himself to whatever he would face when he and his brother returned home, Canada watched the event unfold, admiring the guts of America and his American Britons whilst questioning how much of it was a good idea.

**On the way home…**

"He seemed very upset with you, America." warned Canada calmly and with his delicately soft voice which almost seemed to be torn away by the wind as it blew past.

"S'med fine."

"Sorry?"

"He seemed fine to me." grumbled America.

Canada resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How could America possibly be so ignorant of Britain's feelings? The three had lived together for a few years now, but America had had several more years with Britain than Canada had, so how was it that he was so spectacularly ignorant of Britain's behaviour and attitudes and feelings? It was obvious to Canada that Britain agreed with America on a lot of the issues, but also understood where parliament was coming from, and understood that sacrifices had to be made and that these sacrifices were not welcome in the colonies, or, at least, not to the Whigs.

"He was furious, America," explained Canada, "Did you not see his face?"

"D'd n't say an'th'ng."

"Sorry?"

"He did not say anything," replied America, "So he could not have been _that _upset."

Canada's mouth fell agape slightly, just enough to catch a couple of flies, were there any stupid enough to fly into his mouth. Had America been paying the blindest bit of attention to Britain when he was here? At all? Then again, Canada supposed, America spent a lot of his time on his own, resenting Britain for leaving him all alone, so perhaps America's ignorance of Britain's behaviour was not entirely his own fault. Still, after all these years, had America forgotten about Britain's impossibly controlling social rules? They had not changed at all during the years, so how could America have forgotten about them? These were the social rules that banned Britain from doing a myriad of things that normal people would not think twice about doing.

"He wanted to say something." stated Canada, as though encouraging America to remember these social rules by himself.

"Sh'u'd 'av' said s'm'th'ng."

"He could not have said something," explained Canada, "Even though he wanted to, because it would have _made a scene*_. Do you not remember him saying this before?"

America grunted and shook his head, affirming the negative. America did not remember, or at least, chose not to remember the time when the two of them had seen someone shout offensive things at Britain from across the street*. They had, America opted to not remember, asked Britain why he had not turned around and challenged the man and his comments. Britain's response – had America decided to choose to remember – was that he did not wish to make a scene. This, the two boys found, was quite a bizarre reason and whilst Canada had mentally noted it, America had apparently forgotten it for the time being.

"Just be careful what you say to him," warned Canada, "Okay?"

All he received in return was a non-explicit grunt.

**Some time later…**

They opened the door slowly, together, as though hoping that it would not explode and kill them as soon as they touched its heavy oak frame. Britain was waiting in the hallway, like a harbinger of death thanks to how still he stood and how his impossibly green eyes glared down angrily at the two newcomers. A cup of tea on a plate was balanced perfectly in his left hand, his right hand stirring the contents with a quick, sharp movement that was unnecessary as the tea had already gone cold. The two younger males stared at their caretaker, simultaneously intimidated and impressed by the sudden _presence _he was capable of invoking.

"_Upstairs, Canada._"

The two froze. The force behind those two words was never more apparent. The bright green eyes were incredibly unimpressed and the drawn, emotionless face told them, without question, that deviating from the expected response by even an inch of space would be met with further anger. Once the words had seeped in, requiring time to do so as the force with which they had been spoken had temporarily destroyed their reaction times, Canada quickly made his way upstairs. The young violet-eyed blond practically ran into his room, though there was not a sound to indicate that the door had been properly shut; apparently left ajar so that Canada could hear what was going on.

It drew on like something incomparably uncomfortable and awkward. The silence was unbearable and the only sound audible throughout the entire building was the gentle tickings of clocks, ticking onwards as they always did, and the sharps echoing sound that snapped around the building as the metal edge of the spoon collided with the ceramic side of the tea cup. Despite the uneasiness of the silence, America did not drop his gaze from the now acidic green orbs. America knew he was right, he knew he had every right to do what he had done and he knew that Britain greatly admired guts in the face of terrifying adversity. America would not be intimidated and would not back down before his caretaker, regardless of just who that caretaker might be.

"I-"

"_Do not speak_."

The command was so loaded that it almost felt like a physical force. America gawped slightly and was taken aback by how powerful those words seemed, by how they seemed to freeze him in place and hold him perfectly still. In a few hundred years time, America would compare that feeling to being like a rabbit caught in headlights, but for now, all he knew was that Britain was beyond angry: he was like a volcano waiting to erupt after hundreds of years of patient silence. America would not say he was scared, when asked later, for he was not, but, he would readily admit that he was surprised.

"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?"

"I-"

"Were you _even _thinking _at all_?" hissed Britain, "Throwing _tea _into the _sea_? I thought I bloody well taught you better!"

America's mouth fell open slightly, as though preparing an answer, but he quickly shut it after catching, just for a moment, the two green orbs of his caretaker. America could not, for all of his fruitless attempts, understand why Britain was so upset. Britain loved his tea, yes, that was fast becoming an obvious fact, but quite why what was becoming known as 'the Boston Tea Party' annoyed him so much was something America, quite simply, could not comprehend. So far as he saw it, his people had simply been exercising their right to protest against unconstitutional laws. Britain's parliament had no right to tax them, and they were simply making that known, why was it such a problem?

"It is _just _tea!"

"Do you have _any _idea what you have just done?" hissed Britain, his cup clattering deafeningly against the plate it stood on as though it were being violently shaken to death, "Any idea? _At all?_"

"It is _just _tea!" spat America, sick of being spoken down to, "And you had no right to tax us!"

"Do you think that I do not know that?" scoffed Britain, "Do you think me blind?"

America paused and frowned, confused. He glimpsed, just for a second, genuine hurt and worry in those green orbs. America thought quickly and slowly sat down. There was something going on behind those emerald orbs and America would not ever uncover the answers by engaging in a shouting match that he would never win. America _wanted _to argue. He wanted to scream and shout his anger at the Brit, but he knew that this would achieve nothing and there was something in those eyes that told him that Britain was angry because he was worried and upset and perhaps, perhaps just a little bit afraid.

"Parliament is full of old men who _think _they understand," growled Britain viciously, "Who think they know best and who are elected in rigged elections*."

The tea cup clattered incredibly violently against the plate beneath it, seeming to become louder with each passing second. America watched it with fascination, curious as to why it was behaving so and then looked to the hand that held it and began to notice just how much that arm and its twin were shaking. In fact, the more he looked, the more it seemed as though Britain's entire frame was shaking and shivering. Along with Britain's incredibly flushed face, turned a tomato red from the building rage and upset, one would have thought him ill. America's attention was drawn away from this as Britain opened his mouth to speak once again.

"They tax people in Birmingham and Manchester who do not have MPs and they tax working men who are not allowed to vote," ranted Britain, apparently struggling for breath as he spoke continuously without pause, "And you think _for a second_ that I do not know they have illegally taxed _you_?"

America's mouth opened slightly and then closed again.

"And what do you think parliament will do when it learns of this _'tea party'_?" hissed Britain rhetorically, "Did you think for a second what parliament would do?"

America's silence indicated his answer.

"The colonies had supporters in parliament, do you think they will continue to support you now?" ranted Britain, the tea cup clattering with a now visible crack snaking down from the rim, "You will lose support in parliament, Lord North will pass more foolish Acts, you will do _something_ and I do not know what will happen."

The tea cup shattered and America heard Britain's voice crack slightly, and he immediately became aware of how fragile Britain truly was. Like decorated glass, the smallest crack could shatter the entire frame if given enough time and enough pressure. America saw, for the briefest of moments, just how weak the British Empire was, how much he relied on bravado and fear and technology and unquestioning obedience for his continued dominance. For the first time in his life, America saw fear in a flash in those little green eyes. Britain did not know what would happen and America could see that it clearly spooked the man.

"Why are you so sure I will lose supporters in parliament?"

Britain's eyes looked dead as they met America's, "I can feel it."

"And Lord North?"

"He is an idiot," replied Britain, "And a fool. I do not need to think to guess what he will do."

"And me?"

"I do not know," was the saddened response, "I do not know to what extent these colonists _feel _British, I do not know to what extent they are _American British_ and I do not know how they will react, or how you will react."

"But we have done things like this before and parliament backed down," reassured America, "How can we know they will not do so again?"

"No, no," replied Britain sadly, "This _feels _different. This feels like…"

America waited, but the rest never came.

"You know what?" asked Britain with a smile even America knew to be fake, "Never mind. I am just a little upset about you messing up my tea and making it with seawater, all of what I just said is nonsense."

America frowned, unconvinced, imitating unknowingly the expression on Canada's face. Nonsense? It was probably the first time in their lives that Britain had spoken the entire truth of what he thought, rather than concealing his true thoughts behind veils of lies and fake smiles (and everyone would later wonder why America would lie and smile at you even if he hated your guts). Some part of them silently saw Britain's reasoning and agreed that they would only ever speak of Britain's outrage at the destruction of tea: that they would never speak of the scared concerns and hatred directed at parliament and the infamously stupid Lord North.

"You just go upstairs and sleep okay?" asked Britain, closing his eyes because he could never hide what lay within them, "Do not worry about what I said, it was all silly ramblings. You go upstairs and if you ever want a cup of tea, remember not to use seawater, hmmm?"

America begrudgingly obeyed. Watching the Brit as he ascended the staircase, America saw Britain pull his right hand up to his mouth and nervously nibble on his finger. America briefly noted what an incorrigible liar Britain truly was.

_The way I see it, the American Brits were either supported or viewed with apathy by the Brits back home. After the Boston Tea Party, opinion in Parliament and political circles swelled up against them. As much as Britain loves tea, I can imagine that he would have been more concerned by the potential consequences of the action, as he would have known that Lord North was a complete arsehole._

_*America's behaviour towards British shipments of tea and their consignees: Americans had already sent back shipments of tea and forced consignees to resign and were causing problems several months before the Boston Tea Party_

_*hung, drawn and quartered: a particularly vicious punishment, no one is entirely sure what it entailed, but everyone agrees that it was pretty nasty_

_Additional note: it should be 'hanged, drawn and quartered' but colloquially, it is always referred to as 'hung'_

*_whigs: what Americans were called before they were Americans, I have no idea why they were called whigs, but it was a pretty 18__th__ Century thing to wear a wig_

_*Scotland had taken the role of violent but lovable uncle: referring to Nova Scotia, a maritime province of Canada, where 29.3% of the population identify themselves as having Scottish ancestry_

*_the only George to have reigned Britain and have been actually born there: the Georges came from the House of Hannover and were German, George III was one of the few born in Britain, though he later married a German _

*_perhaps enough so to be remembered in future years: despite being a pretty good King, no one really remembers him for anything beyond the fact that he went insane _

_*essentially guaranteed the safety of the monarchy for hundreds of years: he gave Parliament all the Crown's lands (i.e. income) for an annual income of a set amount, this essentially insured that we make massive profits off the Royal Family and they get to hang around _

_*the last nail in the coffin: historian Benjamin Labaree suggested that 'a stubborn Lord North had unwittingly hammered a nail in the coffin of the old British Empire' _

_*Parliament taxed people in Britain who were not even represented by a single MP: in 1780, the electorate of Wales and England was composed of 3% of the population and large, industrial, populous cities like Leeds, Birmingham and Manchester did not have a single MP between them, whereas one area with a population of 32 had 2 MPs_

_*Samuel Adams: one of the Founding Fathers and very vocal speaker against the British Parliament's taxation of colonists_

_*make a scene: making a scene and drawing attention to yourself is generally frowned upon in England, if you shout at someone in a street (even if the shouting is warranted) you will likely receive disapproving frowns from other people_

_*shout offensive things at Britain from across the street: as a rule, if you shout at an English person across a street, they will turn around and glare at you, possibly give you a non-verbal swear word but otherwise ignore you, only a select few will confront you and 'make a scene'_

_*elected in rigged elections: though not necessarily rigged, ballots in some areas would only feature one candidate and in others, voting against a particular candidate could ruin your social standing and therefore career_


	17. 24th November 1534

**A huge thanks to **I Am One With Mother Russia**, **J.**, **Tazzilicious**, **Korean Boron**, **HoshiUta** and **Frogbert **for your marvellous, marvellous and much appreciated reviews.**

**I apologise for the delay, but it was Freshers' Week and I'm a Uni Student now. Needless to say, I will continue writing this when I have time and stuff.**

**Requested by **Half formed demon**.**

_How England may have reacted to the Act of Supremacy._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Act of Supremacy**

**24****th**** November 1534**

_Parliament_

England had never held very fond feelings towards Parliament, but he did have to admit that their ability to choose ridiculously pretentious names for Acts was quiet impressive. The 'Act of Supremacy' was its name, England had been told after asking – why the member in question was so appalled by his illiteracy was a mystery, given that it was actually an uncommon occurrence to be literate in his nation* - and it could not really have sounded any more self-righteous than it already did. England swore quite openly on his very being that these members of Parliament simply liked to sound very important and impressive – funnily enough, nothing would change over the next four hundred years.

"…the only supreme head on Earth of the Church in England…"

Controversial, at best, but downright dangerous at worst. King Henry VIII wanted to split the Church in England from Rome, for good by the sound of it. This in itself was a massive problem. England had been subject to Catholic influences pretty much since St Augustine's mission in 597* (though, admittedly, pagan practices remained, if practised in secret), and so England felt quite uncomfortable with the idea. Aside from his Parliament and King deciding that the entire country was to change religion, England's knowledge of European politics assured him that the Catholic countries around him would be less than impressed by this declaration and would, more than likely, spend the next few hundred years trying to invade and place a Catholic royal on the throne* to (essentially) revoke the Act.

It was a dangerous move, really, and England was not entirely sure that it was a good one. It all started with political differences, truth be told. Henry was not an overtly patient man, and his stubbornness was fast becoming legendary to those who were not already aware of it. So, when King Henry VIII wanted his marriage with Catharine of Aragon annulled, so that he could marry Anne Boleyn – a nice English girl: very, very astute and intelligent, England reasoned – and the Pope said that it was not possible, it was quite easy to see how things had escalated the way they did. King Henry VIII was, after all, an incredibly stubborn man and the Pope was an authority so far away that, at times, England almost felt as if he was not real at all. In this sense, the Pope reminded him an awful lot of King Richard I*.

One of the main contributing factors to Henry's decision to leave Catharine was that she had given him a daughter – the little Princess Mary – and _not _a son and she was not getting any younger. This was one of the points where England agreed with his ruling monarch (not that he was ever stupid enough to openly disagree anyway). England had never been ruled by a woman, and whilst England knew (from experience*) that they could be good leaders, the situation in the Kingdom felt too delicate to risk it. Henry was only the second Tudor and given that the Wars of the Roses were still haunting England's dreams, England really did not want to risk a weak woman on the throne, not so soon after the Wars.

"…shall enjoy all honours, dignities, preeminences, jurisdictions, privileges, authorities, immunities, profits and commodities to the said dignity."

Were they even speaking English? What part of that made sense? England frowned. There was really no need to be that wordy, particularly when all they really meant was that King Henry VIII was now the Head of the Church in England, and was, for all intents and purposes, an English Pope. Why Parliament needed to use quite so many words to explain this was a mystery, if only because at least three of the words they had used were virtually synonyms. England sighed audibly at the back of the room, exasperated with Parliament and, just a little bit, frightened by what this new Act might mean for his future. How would Ireland react? His next door neighbour was Catholic and their history was hardly amiable. Had the King and his advisors really thought this through? England was beginning to have his doubts.

"What a _sigh_ is there!" hissed Wingfield threateningly, "My dear _England_."

England frowned distinctly and glared with his acidic green eyes at Thomas Wingfield, member of Parliament for Sandwich*. The constituency of Sandwich did not like Thomas Wingfield very much – they had once dismissed him from his role as jurat – and so England did not particularly worry for his welfare. Wingfield seemed to dislike many things, and had a face that made him look very much as though he had been slapped in the face by a dead fish repeatedly until his face resembled one (having said that, England's general dislike of the man did greatly influence his opinion). The one thing that infuriated England the most about Wingfield was that he did not seem to believe that England was in fact England: he seemed to think that England was a lying and dishonest nobleman.

"I worry, _Wingfield_," spat England aggressively, "About the people."

Wingfield scoffed, almost loud enough to interrupt the speech still being spoken by the selected member. England strongly resisted the urge to stab him in the side of the chest with his elbow, insufferably unpleasant man bloody deserved it, so far as England was concerned. Every conversation between them progressed like this. Wingfield would make some remark, always sarcastically biting out the word 'England', England would respond with a polite statement, perhaps spitting out 'Wingfield' and that is when things would normally begin to kick off. They had never fought whilst Parliament was in session, but verbal battles between the two men were hardly uncommon.

"The _people_?" snickered Wingfield, "Wherefore dost _thou _worry about the people?"

England felt an expression of disgust and annoyance leap up onto his face in a matter of seconds. How dare the man be so disrespectful! 'Thou'? England outranked Wingfield substantially – in title, let alone because he was a nation – and they were certainly _not _friends. England would not even call the man an associate. The use of 'thou' was completely incorrect. It was disrespectful that Wingfield used it _without_ the fact that he added a disgusted, harsh tone on the word, so _with_ it Wingfield was lowering England's status to that of something lower than a peasant. England himself would not have been bothered (he represented the 'peasants' and 'ordinary people' – why would he be ashamed?) had it been anyone but Wingfield.

England opened his mouth to speak when he felt a hand on his right shoulder, pressing down on his expensive, bespoke, selected-by-Henry clothes. England closed his mouth and turned to face the man who had interrupted him. His disgusted, hurt and angry expression disappeared instantaneously into one of pleasant, contented surprise. A smile immediately snuck up onto England's face as he set his eyes on Vincent Engeham. England would like to have had explicable reasons for liking Vincent Engeham. Unfortunately, being the petty man that England is, England only really liked him because he was a member for Sandwich as well, but was not so much of an ass* as his fellow, Wingfield.

"Engeham!" beamed England, "How can I aid thee?"

"The King demands thine presence."

England felt a confused frown sneaking onto his face. Henry wanted to see him? England couldn't help but allow his confused frown to turn into a simpler, more despondent one. Meetings between himself and King Henry VIII normally went quite well, because the King was relatively popular with the people. The people admired his intelligence, his apparent kindness, his loyalty to his country and his athletic pursuits, and so meetings normally went quite well: England found himself gawping for at least the first few minutes of any meeting, simply because he felt as though it were an awesome privilege that he was allowed to speak to the King. This one, however, worried England.

England was worried that the peoples' apathy might just annoy the King enough for him to be locked up in the Tower again, because apathy was, by and large, the most dominating of emotions felt by Englishmen towards things they were not passionately interested in. There would be a few Catholics, England felt, that would fight tooth and nail to keep the country Catholic, but there were, equally, the protestant-minded who had been waiting years for something like this to happen. The vast majority of people, however, did not seem to particularly care one way or the other, so long as they were in God's good book and not liable to being sent to hell for anything anytime soon.

"I know not how thou art able to speak so often with his Highness, the King," hissed Wingfield, who would remain an unbeliever in England's status until, and including, his last breath, "_England_, though I would not be so smug, if I were thee."

Glaring slightly, England tsked at Wingfield before following Engeham out of the chamber. Their exit was, thankfully, unnoticed by the vast majority of Parliament, which had already begun its usual habit of erupting into angry sounding grunts at the smallest disagreeable sentence. England sighed slightly at the fact that Parliament behaved in such a way, but he would have been lying had he pretended that he was expecting them to behave in a more responsible fashion: Parliament had always behaved in this manner, and, England largely expected, they would continue to behave in this way for hundreds of years.

The chamber fed into a series of hallways that England knew better than the back of his hand (which would suddenly, magically sport an unexpected scratch if something happened to occur in the Midland counties*). Engeham, though aware of England's extensive knowledge of the paths, decided to lead anyway, turning corners and walking past extravagantly decorated offices until they reached a pair of imposing, impressive wooden doors of the darkest oak one could find. They both, though apparently unaware that the other had done the same, drew in a sharp breath, meant to calm their nerves, though realistically doing nothing of the sort. They pressed against the wooden oak doors and were surprised by the amount of ease with which they swung open.

"England?" asked Engeham, nervousness still wavering in his voice, despite his more-common-than-most-people's meetings with the King, "Shall I stay with thee, or?"

"As thou wilt," replied England with audible exhaustion and an entirely unconvincing, weak smile, "Engeham, I can handle myself around Henry, worry not."

Engeham's slight frown showed the extent to which England's smile was unconvincing. Engeham was nothing but more worried when he left the room, as he knew England better than most and was more than aware that England would speak his mind when pushed to be utterly, and completely frank. Speaking your mind in front of the King and being entirely honest had not always had the best results. Despite his nervousness at England's condition, Engeham was not worried enough to risk a confrontation with a man who could order his head off if he was in the wrong mood. Engeham, despite what Wingfield would have claimed, was not an idiot.

_King's Chamber_

The Chamber was large, though not intentionally designed to be so, it had simply been that way for hundreds of years already, and no one really saw any particular reason to move to any other room or have any work done to the present one. Thus, the sweeping archways that flew upwards into a sharp point in the ceiling had become less and less intimidating for England as the years went by, though, apparently, Wales still disliked them enough to avoid meetings of these kind as much as physically possible without the King becoming suspicious.

King Henry sat as a sort of centrepiece to the room. Everything in the room was designed to draw attention to the ornate wooden throne in the centre of the wall at the very far end of the sweeping Chamber. A blood red carpet ran along the centre of the room, almost as though imagining itself to be some sort of major artery or something akin to that. Guards, looking as fierce as they did nice, stood at the base of every pillar, of which there were six on each side. Their armour looked, for once, as though it were mildly more comfortable than everyone else's normal clothes (in that, it was basically winter, and they were warm, if not hot).

King Henry was a slim, fit young man (though all with a basic knowledge of history would be aware that this attractive figure would not last for the duration of his life), with a healthy glow to his face that reassured England to no end. After all, after having had ill Kings before, England was more than aware that a weak King lead to all kinds of trouble (most notably feudal-civil wars), and so England was very glad that King Henry VIII seemed like a healthy young man. On top of that, the man was intelligent and very politically savvy. He was, England imagined, just what the country needed after a good few hundred years of feudal bitch-fighting.

"England!" boomed out Henry's voice, echoing powerfully around the chamber, "A pleasure to see thee! How goes?"

England smiled weakly, though all who had had contact with him knew the weak smile was one of hidden, but genuine contentment and awe (despite England's frequent meetings with the man, the peoples' appreciation of Henry still managed to freeze England's senses for a good few seconds or so). Bowing his head politely, England looked up and met Henry's deep eyes. Despite the fuss made by advisors and guards, England always shared very close, very personal relationships with the Royal Family. After all, he had seen them born and raised: it was natural that they feel attachment towards each other.

"The pleasure is mine," smiled England, "Your Grace."

The movement was so small, that it could easily have been missed by someone not accustomed to the tiny myriad of fine movements that formed the communications between England and the King. The King had rolled his eyes and, entirely imperceptibly, sighed in exasperation. The King was good friends with England, more so than his advisors considered healthy (hence England occasionally being shoved up in the Tower: to keep up appearances, and so forth), but they were certainly close enough for England to drop the honourifics that he seemed to love using so much. Henry visibly waved the 'your grace' off with a flick of his hand, deeming it far too formal for the moment.

"Thou hast not form'd retort to my question," pointed out Henry, "How goes?"

"Upon mine heart, your Grace," replied England warily, "I know not. The passions and considerations of our people are so divided and variable; there is no consensus amongst them."

"Prithee," began King Henry VIII, surprising those few new guards to the court who were noticeable for the occasional shifting of their feet, "Explain thyself, England."

"The masses care not for the politics of the matter, and neither do they concern themselves about religion. If they will not be condemned to the Hellish Fires, they care not in what Church they are placed," began England, explaining the matter as frankly as he could, "They may not convert to your new Church, but they will certainly not revolt against it."

Henry nodded quickly, looking to all the world like a nodding dog – had they been invented in the sixteenth century. The King's eyes were sparkling with interest, concern and a heavy, questioning intellect. Every word that fell from England's lips was carefully scrutinised and analysed to its fullest potential, so much so that the King had a very in-depth knowledge of his nation, perhaps more so than any King had ever had before. The guards who had been there long enough to see these meetings on a regular basis acknowledged that Henry always wore this intrigued, thoroughly interested look whenever England was present and speaking.

"Though, sire, there are those who wish to fight tooth and nail to maintain a Catholic England, they will fight and revolt, and I feel that they may take action against yourself in order to achieve this," added England, "Though these are far fewer in number than those of whom I have just spoken."

A heavy, claustrophobic silence descended on the room as Henry pondered this new information. The guards watched with silent fascination as England took in a very sharp, sudden breath and closed his eyes. They frantically attempted to lip read as silent words formed and fell on the Englishman's lips with a speed that seemed to imply that whatever it was he was doing was a common enough habit, for it to become almost unconscious. Those guards experienced enough to have understood each individual word knew that England was reciting the Lord's Prayer, in Latin. As much as England was indifferent to religion, he was certainly fearful of it and relied on it heavily, more so than he would ever admit.

"I see."

Henry's booming voice pervaded every inch of the room, and resounded terrifically off the walls. It was as though the Chamber, built hundreds of years ago, had been created for the sole purpose of amplifying the voices of past (and future) Kings (and possibly Queens, catastrophic as England felt it could be to his only just recovering monarchy). England's head immediately snapped upwards and his sparkling green eyes caught those of Henry's, waiting with bated breath for what would come next. England greatly feared what would come next, and with good reason.

England had long heard the vicious whisperings of the Court, and he was all too aware that the vast majority of these whisperings had him as their primary subject. England knew that the King's advisors were often single-minded and efficiently bureaucratic to the point of utter ignorance. Previous Kings had been advised to exhibit England to torture, as the advisors believed England could give the whereabouts of traitors – England never let slip in Court again that he could feel every citizen on his land. Therefore, when England heard Henry's next statement, it came as somewhat of a relief.

"And what dost thou think?"

"I am afraid, sire," began England with a heavy, pained sigh, "Of Ireland and France and Spain and other nations who follow the Pope. I doubt they will think kindly of me and our people for this development and I fear they may take some action against us."

"Dost thou think it inevitable?"

"I know not," replied England, "But I fear all the same."

Henry nodded solemnly. He too had been worrying the same thing, it was a reassurance to him that he was not the only one concerned as to the political ramifications of his decision. Ireland and France were there immediate neighbours, so they were of greatest concern. Though Henry was the Lord of Ireland, the Irish did not greatly concern themselves with the title, or Henry, and so, as a strongly religious country, could mount some form of rebellion. That, on its own, would not particularly cause problems, as it was not an uncommon occurrence, but should Ireland rebel and France mount an invasion; they would have a very serious and dire problem on their hands. Henry, for all his stubbornness and confidence, did not want to think about what would happen should Spain think to become involved.

"I thank thee, England," began Henry, his eyes glazed over, as though solving some mental problem and not greatly involved with the world immediately around him, "As always thine counsel is of the greatest aid to me."

England smiled a little bit, a small glimpse (to those fast enough to catch it with the corner of their eye) of genuine happiness and contentment, that seemed to always be so very rare – it in fact was far more common than most imagined, by they were usually to ignorant or oblivious to notice. Bowing once more, though with far more enthusiasm than when he had walked in, England turned around and (practically) skipped out of the room.

The elder guards watched with hidden smiles of knowing smugness as they observed the trace of a smile prance onto the King's face, before he too left the Chamber. The new guards were terribly flummoxed and would spend the next hour or so trying to work out precisely what had just happened and why precisely they had been stupid enough to go for the job in the first place.

_Apathy is by far the most widespread emotion felt by the English towards any major events that do not give us cause to moan or sympathise. I imagine that, for the vast majority of English people, they weren't all that fussed by the dissolution of the Catholic Church – so long as they didn't go to Hell. Only a minority of people in England, I imagine, would have been annoyed by the change. Though the destroying monasteries and churches later on would have definitely changed this apathetic opinion, but more on that later._

*_an uncommon occurrence to be literate in his nation: as late as 1841, literacy rates in England were poor: 33% of Englishmen and 44% of Englishwomen were unable to sign wedding certificates, because they could not write_

_*St Augustine's mission in 597: St Augustine of Canterbury is widely attributed with trying to make England a Christian country and for forming the English Church, which was an integral part of the Roman Catholic Church for years_

_*trying to invade and place a Catholic royal on the thrown: Spain tried this on several occasions, most notably with their failed invasion in 1588_

_*King Richard I: as proud as people were of 'Richard the Lionheart', he didn't actually speak a word of English and spent very little time in England – the country he was supposed to be King of_

_*from experience: Boudicca is revered as one of Britain's strongest female leaders, and English people would likely have heard of her, even if through legend passed down through song or something_

_*Thomas Wingfield, member of Parliament for Sandwich: elected on the 29__th__ December 1533 despite being generally disliked by the community (he seemed like a bit of a jerk – one man was sent to jail for calling him a 'false and untrue gentleman')_

_*ass: Shakespeare used this pun quite a lot as it meant both donkey and your rear end (Midsummer Night's Dream: Bottom turns into a donkey), it was quite common to say 'ass' back then, but now, it is considered an Americanism and frowned upon; 'arse' is now the correct term for bottom ('ass' being used exclusively now for donkeys)_

_*Midland counties: referring to the counties that make up the regions of the West Midlands, the East Midlands and the East including counties such as Warwickshire, Worcestershire and Staffordshire_


	18. 3rd June 1940

**A huge thanks to **Half formed demon**, **Tazzilicious**, **Korean Boron **and **HoshiUta** for your wonderful, heart-warming reviews.**

**If you are following this story, I would like to know what you think, even if the only thing you write is 'good, keep it up'. Thank you.**

**This was not requested by anyone, but it is a very significant and (for Brits) well-known event in WWII.**

_Dunkirk._

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Triumph of an Army**

**3****rd**** June 1940**

Britain thought nothing of it at the time, but that was because he was immediately distracted by the total chaos that would unfold should their worst fears come to pass – should the winds turn, should a storm break out, should Germany's troops and _Luftwaffe* _break through their weakening, but resolved defensive forces. It was a miracle that Operation Dynamo* was working as well as it was, so far as Britain was concerned. If the wind should but think of turning the waves against them, those remaining behind would be doomed to a fate that Britain couldn't dare to think of trusting anymore, having seen a tiny glimpse of it already with his own, naked, startlingly green eyes.

The beach, for all the times it had been scarred by machine gun fire in the last few days, was remarkably unchanged. It was still a beach: its normally desert sand-y yellow contorted to a deep, damp greyish yellow that Britain had overheard the French blaming them and their British weather for. The sun was blazing out powerfully and brightly from behind thin white fluffy clouds, that seemed far too innocent to have any right to be where they were. By far the most notable aspect of the beach's current landscape was the BEF* and the equipment that laid strewn behind on the ground, discarded because a life is always so much more important than metal and ships can only carry so much before the weight slows them down and the _Luftwaffe _blow them out the water.

"_Pourquoi es-tu ici?*_"

Britain was broken from his reverie. He looked down, following the sound as quickly as possible with a movement that seemed sharp only due to the war-trained speed with which it had been done. As soon as the Brit's eyes fell upon France's form, they softened and an ever so slight, almost invisible, sympathetic frown graced the usually unimpressed and bitingly sarcastic face. Engulfing France's lithe figure with his shadow, Britain could not help but feel a powerful fear strike at his gut over and over and over again. It was like World War One all over again, but this time they'd taken France. How soon would it be until – Britain cut off his trail.

"I'm not leaving until you do."

France smiled weakly at the idea that Britain was waiting for France. Waiting for France to fall, perhaps? No, retorted France secretly. Britain may have been primarily concerned for himself (with Britain, it was always hard to tell how much of his selfish concern was real, and how much of it was put on to cover up where his real concerns hid themselves), but there was a definitive knowledge that Britain would either have to kowtow to Germany or fight back and win Europe piece by piece (beginning with France) to protect his freedom. Then again, remarked France with a weaker smile, Germany would get as far as Scotland and then lose the War altogether – as a general rule Scotland, Russia and Afghanistan are impossible to invade for any extended period of time unless they don't fight back.

To France, looking up from the floor, Britain had never seemed so impressive. He still held that childish stubbornness, but that would serve him well when Germany finally turned his attention to the Isles that lay within sight from France's coastline*, however there was a grim determination and a visible, plaguing guilt written in the hidden depths of the man's face. His eyes were strained and red around the ever so unnaturally bright green eyes and his blond hair was ruffled and discoloured to the point of looking brunette in the gathering morning sunlight. Though a bit dirty and a little scarred, from where troops of a certain region had perished or sustained heavy damage, Britain looked healthy enough to withstand and fight back an invasion, especially as he now knew not to be so cocky.

"_Je ne peux pas aller avec toi, Grande-Bretagne*_," whispered France, voice almost being torn away by the wind, "I must stay 'ere."

"Don't be ridiculous!" hissed Britain, as vicious as he was scared, "You're coming with me whether you bloody well want to or not. _Il n'y a pas d'un autre choix_.*"

"_Tu as tort*, Grande-Bretagne._"

"I will drag you to that ship if I have to." spat Britain, his eyes burning with a flame that indicated that he was not only threatening, but he was actively preparing himself to carry out his threat (unusual in that most of his threats were empty).

Britain tore his eyes away from France, barely able to look for as long as he did in the first place. It was a nightmarish thing, to be invaded. Next to Civil Wars and Dissolution, Invasion was among the worst tragedies that could befall a nation and though Britain had not been invaded for centuries, the memories still remained and Britain was sure they would haunt his dreams over the next few weeks. So, attempting to limit the severity of his future nightmares, Britain turned his attention back towards the solemnly grey beach that was, for the short time frame that encompassed Operation Dynamo, a surprisingly British beach in appearance and nature; if one could ignore the rotting horse flesh to the far side of the promenade*.

The numbers weren't as large as before: it was the penultimate day of the Operation, but there remained visible, snaking, orderly queues of combat gear lining up from waist-deep in the Channel to the very end of the beach. Officers were doing their very best to keep things orderly, and whilst the vast majority of troops waited patiently for a ship to come and pick them up, there had been problems earlier in the week with soldiers ignoring orders and doing things they had no right to do, or that were downright wrong. A lot of them hadn't lasted very long: some passed away over night from septicaemia or some other life-stealing illness. Despite all that, Britain admired his people and felt a bizarre stirring of pride swelling in his heart, a bizarre stirring he would need to nurture to keep him going the rest of the year.

"_Les queues,_" whispered France weakly with a smile, "_Les queues toujours._"

Britain smiled. France was right. They were British and so they queued. Regardless of the fact that there were _Luftwaffe _planes soaring over their heads trying to mow them down as the RAF fought to keep them safe. Regardless of the fact that there was only so much space on a boat, and that it would be first come, first served. Regardless of the fact that this was the one of the last days of evacuation and anyone left behind would not be rescued until a liberation attempt was made for the whole of Europe. Despite all these reasons they could use to queue jump and fight over places in their queue, they didn't. Britain couldn't help but smile brightly as a small band of Tommies verbally tore down a Frenchman for jumping the queue. Even in the midst of chaos, even lining up to leave Hell, the British queue and impatiently wait their turn.

Britain sighed heavily and dropped to the floor next to France like an overweight sack of potatoes, displacing the damp sand as he fell upon it. Leaning forward and clasping his kneecaps, as though this would provide some warmth and comfort in the beginning of a June that seemed more Hellish than he could ever have imagined. Gently placing his head on his knees, he sighed heavily once more, biting his lip and resisting the urge to panic and scream and shout and run about like a headless chicken, because that's what it felt like deep down. Deep down, it felt like the world was beginning to end. WWI didn't work out like this: with France losing. Did Britain really stand a chance if he stood alone against a German Europe?

A chilled hand clenched Britain's right shoulder with a surprising degree of strength*, one that seemed all too easy to forget was even there. Looking up, and aware that prickles were beginning to stab ever so slightly at the corners of his eyes, Britain looked into the beautiful, beautiful sapphire orbs that belonged to his greatest and best loved rival. Gazing into those orbs, Britain saw for one of the rare moments in his life the 'spirit' of France. Britain saw that, yes, France was defeated, thoroughly and totally, but there was a grim determination set in those eyes. France would fight, he would resist, and even where people cooperated, they would be inordinately _French _and disagreeable, because that was the French way, and that had always been the French way and that would always be the French way.

"France…" began Britain, wondering how much of this next sentence was a good idea, "_J'ai peur_.*"

France saw it all at once in those frighteningly soft green eyes: the fear, the insecurity, the doubt. The fear was shared by his people. They knew France had fallen, it was only a matter of logistics now, but that could mean that Hitler would turn his attention north, and already the horror stories had begun to circulate thanks to the few lucky souls who made it out of Poland and Norway. Yes, the fear was that of his own and his people, amplifying it all the more, but the insecurity and the doubt was all his own, because his people seemed to have very little doubt that they could fight the Nazi bastards off if they had to (the British are nothing if not stubborn).

Britain, himself, the individual personification of the land and people of the whole of the UK (whilst away from his country and his siblings) was insecure and worried, and France found these afflictions to be terribly contagious, because he too soon found himself worrying. Could Britain, a tiny little island barely an hour away from the coast of France, be expected to save an entire continent? Could Britain, with his depleted army and severe loss of equipment, be expected to save anyone? Could Britain even protect and defend himself from an invasion, when he was being threatened on virtually all sides?

Yes, France quickly reassured himself. This was Britain. This was a mouse standing before a lion. Britain was, many people found it all too easy to forget, still an Empire. He may have convinced people to call him Britain, but he was still an Empire and no matter how overstretched an Empire might be, he remains just that. Britain had friends like Canada and Australia who would willingly help their dear guardian, and regardless of all that, Britain was a proud, stubborn bastard of a nation. You could likely bomb him for years and after a couple of months, he'd wonder what all the fuss was about. Britain would fight tooth and nail for freedom and with a leader as stubborn as the nation, France began to feel that perhaps the runt of Europe would manage it once again, and surprise the whole world.

"Don't be," whispered France, reassuringly and softly to cover up the weakness and exhaustion of his voice, "You are strong and stubborn. If anyone can save _l'Europe_, it's you."

"Humph," smiled Britain, "I still not part of Europe then?"

"_Non_," replies France with a wickedly genuine smile, "British food is too terrible for you to be European."

British laughed slightly, a heavy snort, indicating that, for however much he was insulted by it, he was amused by it. France smiled along, appreciating the sound of a laughter that wasn't drunken or empty or shallow or victorious and mocking. The laughter that proudly erupted from Britain's mouth was that of genuine enjoyment: for those few seconds, Britain had forgotten entirely that he was in a war zone and was retreating with the threat of invasion looming very readily over his head like a proverbial guillotine. France told himself to remember that sound, to record it in his head like a little black box records the dying seconds of pilots, because it was likely a sound he would not hear again for years.

"Why?" asked Britain, apparently out of the blue, "Why won't you come with me? I can protect you."

"Because, _ma petite Grande Bretagne_," began France, ignoring Britain's twitching left eye, "You need to protect yourself and your brothers."

"And you're _not _my brother?" hissed Britain, apparently angry, "I can't leave you with _him_. You've heard the stories; don't pretend you haven't."

"My people need me," stated France, "I stay 'ere."

"Yes, they do," spat Britain, apparently increasingly desperate, "But they need you to fight back somewhere safe where Germany and Hitler can't get you."

"You make it sound as if they will kill me," stated France, perhaps a little confused by this unfamiliar concern being exhibited by his normally cold and reclusive British friend, "_Mon ami_."

"How do I know they won't?" snapped Britain, shouting loud enough to cause a scene, breaking one of his most sacred societal taboos to argue with someone who was unlikely to listen to anything he had to say, "They did a pretty number on Poland, from what I heard!"

"I cannot hold out," countered France simply, "And you must not be captured. _Tu es notre dernier espoir*, tu peux lui combattre*._"

Britain had never looked as appalled as he did in the few seconds following that statement. The sky behind him lit up with brilliant flashes of orange and yellow as the dogfights broke out once again in the near distance. Stuttering machine gun fire could be heard sporadically defending the rear line, which was forever moving closer towards the beach. They were all literally surrounded and their only hope of escape was the ocean, and already several boats had been sunk thanks to the persistent efforts of the German pilots, for whom Britain was developing a distinctive distaste. Operation Dynamo was a split second away from falling apart, and it was only sheer dumb luck that it had been as effective as it had been for so long.

"**What?**"

"You can-"

"I understand _what _you said," spat Britain, resorting to insult as desperation and fear and a settling sensation of empty loneliness began to engulf him, "_Frog_."

Britain began to pace, turning from one sharp hundred and eighty degree pivot to another as he violently pounded the beach beneath his feet. He furiously nibbled away at the index finger of his right hand, gnawing away at it with such vigour that France was quite sure it was liable to fall off at some point. His eyebrows were closely knit in a mixture of anger and worry and fear and sheer, bloody panic: something which the Briton had only allowed France to glimpse once before, during the Battle of the Somme. Though able to see Britain's fear, France would have been lying had he said that he could understand it in its entirety.

"_Tu es l'Empire britannique,_" began France, "Why are you so worried?"

Britain scoffed loudly, ignored France and continued pacing. The Europeans honestly had no idea how bad things were. Yes, he was the British Empire, though for how much longer that title would last, he couldn't say, but that didn't mean to say that he was prepared for a war on a scale like this so soon after the first one. His male population had literally only just started to recover, thanks to the bastard WWI and the Spanish flu*, and now he was expected to cart them all off again? Then there was his equipment. Germany had been rearming for years right in front of their noses and Britain had been doing bugger all. He'd be lucky if he had a single fully equipped force back home by the end of Dynamo*.

"You have _no idea _what you're asking of me, at all," growled Britain, changing the subject before he tried to strangle the Frenchman, "Churchill overrode Darlan*, you know."

France looked up sharply, his blue eyes immediately brimming with anger. The angry glare of his sapphire blue eyes may have been threatening were it not for the pitiful condition of the man's body. He was battered and bruised, with purple now seeming to form his skin colour as opposed to the yellowing pale white that occasionally blossomed like snowdrops in between the gaps. Small patches of blood stained his uniform, and new stains began to bleed through over areas that Britain knew to be nearing Paris. Tattered, torn uniform sat over a limp and weakening form, and Britain knew, with saddened eyes, that France had seen much worse.

In the southern regions of France, the citizens were evacuating, though they had no idea where they could go to be safe. They didn't really care so long as they were a town or so ahead of the steadily moving Nazi machine. They would walk down the roads, barely shaded by the trees, and suddenly hear the familiar roaring engine of a plane. They would have literally seconds to either dive into the fantastically useful ruts either side of the road or be torn in two by machine gun fire. When the citizens – the lucky few who survived their evacuation – found the French army, they were greeted by one that was striking due to poor conditions, poor leadership and a completely apathetic approach to fighting. France was truly lost.

"_Quoi_?" demanded France, bitterly angry.

"Churchill," stated Britain, "From the thirty first of May we've been evacuating in equal numbers," a sly, proud smile graced Britain's face, "Didn't you know?"

"_Putain!*_"

"My prime minister is not a whore," retorted Britain, "Thank you very much."

"You are a fool."

"Funny, that's what Norway said as well," mused Britain before becoming more serious, "Look, we've offered to take Norway's royal family and government: we can take your government as well. Set up a government in exile, we'll give you everything you need, just come with us."

"Charles* does not need me with 'im," stated France, "I stay 'ere."

"Honestly!" sighed Britain heavily, "I don't even understand why Germany'd _want_ to invade you, you're such a pain in the arse, I'm not sure it'd even be worth the bother."

"Ah," began France with a sly smile, "He may not try to invade you at all: _il n'y a aucune chose là sauf la pluie*._"

"Liar," replied Britain, "We get snow sometimes."

Silence fell between them and it was an unusual amicable sort of silence that was rudely interrupted every breath by distant shouting, machine gun shuddering and chattering and the occasional but distinctive wailing that came with a swooping aircraft. Britain, in his heart of hearts, had accepted that France was going to be a completely selfish idiot and stay in his country. To be fair to the man, Britain was pretty sure he'd be insisting the same if someone walked up to him and asked him to do what he was asking of France. That didn't, however, mean that Britain would ever forgive him for giving in to the Nazis.

"How are you going to get to the meetings?" asked Britain, silently accepting, through this question, France's decision to remain behind, "It won't be easy."

"You think I can't outwit the Germans?" scoffed France, "I will not miss them."

"Humph," agreed Britain, "You're mad, _Frog_, you're bloody insane."

"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE?"

France watched with an amused expression as a frankly furious British general stormed over having spotted his nation 'happily' chatting his time away. Britain, apparently terrified out of his wits by this man, stood stock still and immediately saluted and tried to reason with him, giving his excuses for staying as long as he had. The general, however, was having absolutely none of it. The way the general saw it, Britain ought to be safe back home in the UK, not in Dunkirk at the jaws of the Nazi forces who would snap him up at the first opportunity.

"No! I'm bloody well staying – GEROFF ME!"

France watches with a saddened expression as a nearly-literally volcanic Brit is steadily dragged away by two soldiers recruited at random from the queue to take their national personification to safety. The general shouts at the men, telling them not to let Britain out of their sight for even a second, and the general stops these commands only to smile weakly, awkwardly at France and nearly whisper an unbidden 'sorry'. The distracted general is not distracted by France for much longer as Britain somehow breaks free of the two arm locks and makes a break for it over the damp sand.

"SIR! NO! COME BACK!"

Britain races forward and France watches with widened, uncontrollably happy eyes as he approaches, only to have his happiness utterly destroyed as the general sweeps Britain back with a sudden thrust of his arm. Now being held in place by three men, who are just barely enough to hold the Briton back in his weakened condition, Britain leans over and shouts as loud as he can so that the words carry, so that the words aren't caught and swept away by the vicious tearing winds that begin to grace and cut against the beach's shore.

"We will come back," states Britain as earnestly as his unbending societal rules of behaviour would allow, "We will liberate you. We will win. _Je te promesse_. _Est-ce que tu me comprends?*_"

A silent pause as France computes the words.

"_Est-ce que tu me comprends?_" hisses the voice that belongs to the sharp green eyes.

A weak smile.

"_Merci._" whispers France sadly as he watches Britain dragged away and forcefully pulled up onto one of the boats, being held to its deck as though about to leap from it and make yet another break for it.

As France sits on the beach on his own, he begins to wonder if Britain really will be okay, and just what this Blitzkrieg might entail for an island nation such as he who was just dragged kicking and screaming to a boat that would carry him to Dover. He begins to wonder what will become of himself until he remembers that he is French, and that nothing, Nazi influence or otherwise, will ever impact upon that Frenchness enough to change him even slightly. As was sung mere months before the invasion, _Paris sera toujours Paris*_.

_For Brits, Dunkirk is widely regarded as the greatest military evacuation ever. When it was announced, the King announced days of prayer, anyone with a boat was encouraged to go out to Dunkirk to pick up soldiers. Over 300,000 soldiers were evacuated from Dunkirk by 42 British Destroyers and over 700 merchant ships. Even now, you will hear Brits talk of 'the Dunkirk spirit'. For us, it is one of the most important events of the War (though no one else seems to learn about it)._

_*Luftwaffe: the German air force _

_*Operation Dynamo: an operation to evacuate as many forces as possible from Dunkirk, on the coast of Northern France_

_*BEF: British Expeditionary Force_

_*Pourquoi es-tu ici?: (French) Why are you here?_

_*Isles that lay within sight from France's coastline: you can, on good days, sometimes see the English coast from the Pas-de-Calais region of France_

_*Je ne peux pas aller avec toi, Grande-Bretagne: (French) I can't go with you, Britain_

_*Il n'y a pas d'un autre choix: (French) there isn't another choice_

_*tu as tort: (French) you're wrong _

_*rotting horse flesh to the far side of the promenade: the Allies were still using horses at the beginning of WWII, and as they couldn't be taken back to the UK as part of Dynamo, and they didn't want the Germans using them, the horses were shot dead_

_*a surprising degree of strength: France has always had a very healthily large and well trained military, (I'm going to not mention discipline) and had a larger army than Britain at the start of both World Wars_

_*j'ai peur: (French) I'm scared_

_*tu es notre dernier espoir: (French) you are our last hope_

_*tu peux lui combattre: (French) you can fight him_

_*thanks to the bastard WWI and Spanish flu: these two events decimated the male population in Britain for decades, and by the start of WWII, it had only really just begun to make a full recovery_

_*single fully equipped force back home by the end of Dynamo: at the end of 1940, the only fully equipped troop in the whole of the UK was Canadian_

_*Churchill overrode Darlan: French Admiral François Darlan ordered British troops to be given priority for evacuation, in a meeting in Paris, Churchill overrode this decision and ordered all evacuations to proceed with equal numbers of French and British soldiers_

_*putain: (French) an exclamation similar to 'damn it', though it literally translates as whore/bitch/prostitute _

_*Charles: referring, of course, to Charles de Gaulle_

_*il n'y a aucune chose là sauf la pluie: (French) there's nothing there except the rain_

_*Je te promesse_. _Est-ce que tu me comprends?: (French) I promise you. Do you understand me?_

_*Paris sera toujours Paris: a song sung before the invasion about how, regardless of the scaffolding and wartime changes made to the French capital, the French continued on as normal_


	19. 27th June 2011

**UPDATED 07/08/2012: Two reviewers have argued that my description of the severity of the c word is inaccurate, so it has been altered.**

**A huge thanks to **Tazzilicious**, **AllHeroesWearHats**, **HoshiUta**, **Frogbert**, **ForeverAPirate**, **Duckster's-Rave**, **Korean Boron **and **Catching Tomorrow**, because your reviews really do mean a lot to me.**

_How the world may have responded to Britain's new lecture._

_Anything followed by a * has a note at the end of the story._

_WARNING: This chapter will feature many more swearwords than previously._

**The C Word**

**27th June 2011**

Frankly, Britain had had enough. Most of the Commonwealth understood, and most of Europe could be forgiven on the basis that they all spoke different languages anyway. Still, since America had seemingly gone into another one of his 'ooh, isn't British English so quaint and quirky' stages, Britain thought it best to educate the whole world while he was at it. After all, the purpose of these particular UN meetings was more a sort of cultural exchange meant to educate the nations and discourage societal boo-boos when visiting hosting nations.

The purpose of these meetings therefore meant that it was usually Britain and Japan stealing the limelight, as they were renowned internationally for their shockingly vast number of societal taboos. A lot of the world thought that their impossibly controlling societal rules must have something to do with the fact that they were both small, overpopulated islands with an often surprisingly temperate climate*. The fact that both of these two world leaders had such strong invisible rules in their population meant that watching the two trying to begin a conversation was practically a sport, albeit an incredibly slow and dull one.

Anyway, so the nations present had received a surprise of sorts when they had sat down and flicked through their briefings (provided and neatly laid out by Britain). The title of Britain's talk was on '_The Hierarchy and Severity of British Swearwords_'. A lot of nations, most notably the ones who only had a base knowledge of swearwords within the English language, perked up upon reading the title: at least it wasn't another boring lecture on how you order drinks in a British and/or Irish pub (apparently they'd been having some trouble with ignorant foreigners not understanding the subtle invisible queues that form when trying to buy alcohol at a bar*).

America was really quite surprised by the subject of Britain's talk, if only because it was likely to keep him engaged and awake (an unusual and difficult achievement at best). Aside from seeing the Briton as a bit stuffy and sensitive to swearwords (despite the shocking frequency with which he used them), America was quite interested to hear some more of Britain's 'cute', 'quaint' and 'quirky' curses. (America found that, generally speaking, the vast majority of Britain's swearwords sounded cute and endearing, rather than like a sharp insult meant to injure*). What America would soon come to realise, was that the hierarchy of British swearwords was a complex and delicate one.

It was America's firm belief that British words are quaint and cute, and his total lack of understanding as to their severity that had prompted Britain to hold such a talk. Britain, following the habits of the majority of his nation, had gone to the cinema to watch '_Transformers: the Dark of the Moon_'. Though Britain was aware that the Scottish and Cockney robots were there simply to keep him happy and assured that there truly was a 'special relationship' of some description, his shock was unparalleled when one of the robots came out with 'wankers!' during what was a 12A film*. Whilst it was so quick as to be unnoticeable, Britain couldn't help but ponder just how many times he'd heard the word in American shows. Knowing its severity, Britain decided to put America (and conveniently the rest of the world at the same time) right.

"Right! So-"

A lot of nations had previously remarked that Britain seemed incapable of getting 'straight to the point'. He liked to begin with an awkward sounding 'hello' or 'good morning' or 'right, so' (as he had used on this occasion). Even when everyone _knew _what he was going to talk about and why they were all there, he still seemed to feel the need to say a few, random, unnecessary words at the beginning. Had any of the nations who had brought this up been paying attention to the Brit's last cultural exchange talk, they'd have remembered that it was something quite widespread in the English community, though precisely why it was widespread was something that Britain, as someone inflicted with the problem, was unable to explain.

"Today I'm going to be talking about the severity of British swearwords," began Britain, standing behind the podium with what seemed to be a couple of flash cards, "As it's recently come to my attention that some shows, such as certain American TV series, have been using really quite severe language without, perhaps, realising it."

All eyes fell on America, not that he really noticed, half of the Middle East spent most of their time glaring at him anyway, so being stared at was hardly a new experience for him. Most nations were looking at him simply because his name had been mentioned, others, more specifically the Commonwealth nations, were looking at him as though he were some sort of idiot (though this was by no means anything new or shocking). This was because the vast majority of the Commonwealth nations had a, even if it was only basic, grasp of the hierarchical nature of Britain's impressively long list of curses, expletives and insults. Indeed, nations such as Australia had even taken that list, dropped some and added their own.

"So," begins Britain, changing the slide behind him as he speaks, "In 2000, the BBC, British Broadcasting Standards Commission, Advertising Standards Authority and so on published a report entitled '_Delete expletives?_' and whilst I'm not too keen on the title, it is a rather comprehensive report. You'll find copies in the brief."

The nations present immediately flicked through their files until they came across the document in question. Many of them pulled it out, ready to locate the relevant page, should Britain note any pages of particular worth, though many simply nodded appreciatively and shoved it back into their files. The few who carried out the latter action did so mainly because they weren't going to lie to themselves and pretend they were going to read it at a later stage, because, quite simply, they would probably never pick up that document again unless they needed to burn it for fuel.

"The words mentioned in the report are considered to be swearwords, of varying severity, and I'll get on to those in a bit," continues Britain, "But I just want to run over a couple of notes first."

The slide changes, and, somehow, everyone is still awake. For the cultural exchange talks, this was somewhat of an achievement. The fact that the entire talk was about swearwords and how to use them correctly probably had something to do with this sudden and unexpected level of attentiveness, but this fact by no means detracted from the impressive revelation that they were still, all in fact awake. Well, all bar Ireland and Australia, who really have every right to fall asleep, being as they were remarkably well versed and fluent in British English Cursing anyway.

"Okay, firstly, there are a lot of insults in British English that are considered to be very weak. You would avoid using them around children, maybe, but they are often used endearingly, to a close friend or relative.

"These are words such as _git_, _barmpot_, _numpty_, _twazzock_, _pillock_, _idiot_, _berk_, _blighter_, _divot_, _dimwit_, _duffer_, _eejit_, _muppet_, _nutter_, _prat_, _plonker_ and so on and they are often used to describe someone who's done something silly or clumsy. You'll find a more comprehensive list in the brief under '_Light Insults_' along with a more specific description of what each word means, but the point here is that these are weak insults that do not cause offense."

Britain passed a quick glance over the conference room whereupon he noticed that many of the nations seemed to be taking notes. Precisely why, Britain was unsure because this was a very rare occurrence, as was the fact that they were even _listening_. He assumed they were taking notes because they didn't realise that everything he said was basically in the brief. The truth was however, that they were making notes on how to pronounce these so-called 'light insults', because they were pretty cute sounding words and many of the nations had the explicit intention of learning them just to annoy Britain, who, unbeknownst to them, would actually just be quite chuffed that people were using them correctly.

"Excuse me?" queried Japan politely, raising his hand as he spoke, "Could you use one in a sentence, please?"

Britain frowned ever so minutely, because he couldn't really understand why it was necessary. The insults were nouns and so were used as such: there was really nothing particularly complex or peculiar about how they were used. In fact, the only way that the words could be peculiar was in context, and context very rarely depended on sentence structure for anything. Nevertheless, Britain was hardly going to ignore such a polite request, and Britain couldn't dismiss the idea that maybe Japan just wanted reassurance that they were used in one particular way or another. Heaven only knew though, Britain remarked, no one could tell what Japan was thinking at the best of times.

"Of course," smiled Britain, still confused, "For example: 'What were you trying to do, you numpty?' or 'He's a right barmpot, your lad.' Does that help?"

"Yes," nodded Japan eagerly, perhaps too eagerly for Britain's liking, "Thank you."

Britain, having been distracted, took a quick glance at his notes to try and remind himself where he had been. The flashcards, which he'd written the night before (because frankly, if he didn't understand the severity of his own country's insults and swearwords enough to summarise them in one night, he didn't deserve to represent England, let alone the United Kingdom), told him that the next thing he was moving onto was the '_Delete Expletives?_' report's categorisation of swearwords and curse words. He was ignoring, of course, most of the ones on the weaker end of the scale and instead focusing on words much higher up the scale and the levels of offense they could cause when used.

"Right," begins Britain, changing the slide to display the neat little chart drawn up by the report, "I'm going to ignore a lot of the weaker categories here and jump straight to '_Blasphemy_'."

"_Les goddams!_" laughed out France loudly, whose laughter was immediately followed by giggles among the ex-French colonies (who Britain already felt sorry for), "We 'ave an expert on blasphemy 'ere!"

Some of the more religious countries seemed, ever so slightly, offended. Notably large groups of nations seemed offended by this revelation (which really wasn't a revelation: Britain had been taking God's name in vain from pretty much the moment he learnt the word) such as some of the South American and Middle Eastern countries, and a rather large number of Britain's African ex-colonies. It ought to have surprised no one, but somehow, it managed to. Even America (whose own youth were known for using OMG) somehow managed to take on an ever so slightly hurt expression, and America, like most of Europe, was well aware of Britain's prolific swearing and cursing.

"Yes," sighs Britain, "As France so kindly pointed out, my people, and myself, have been blaspheming for a very long time, but, anyway, whilst exclamations such as _Jesus Christ, for the love of God, in the name of the Lord _and so forth _used_ to be considered words on par with strong swearwords such as _fuck_, they are now considered to be quite weak. Though this does vary depend on how religious the person in question is, and often, their age as well."

Picking up the brief and turning to the relevant page, Britain demonstrated where the '_Blasphemy_' list was. He mentally remarked to himself that it was a comparatively small list, when compared to '_Light Insults_' anyway, but sadly added that the list, no matter how small, would still cause some offense to the countries he knew would take offense to it. Notably the ones who were still glaring at him with a level of vindication that made him immediately want to ring the PM (and he'd have to be scared properly out of his wits to run to Cameron anytime soon) and demand that the national terrorist alert level thing be raised to very high, if not replaced entirely with the word 'imminent'.

"This is by no means a comprehensive list of 'blasphemous' phrases, as individuals often add to existing exclamations. Like, for example, I once heard someone shout '_Christ on a bike!_' which is, obviously, a variation of '_Christ!_', so you'll find the most common ones there, but the vast majority of them considered to be very weak by the younger generations, unless someone is particularly religious."

Trying to ignore the heavy glaring that was now being fired in his direction by the collectively large number of countries who were quite religious and were taking quite a lot of offense at this unwelcome news that there was a whole nation that readily blasphemed from something as small as bad news to something as terrible as the end of the world itself, Britain decided to move on. The last thing he wanted was to give these countries any sort of opportunity to start an argument with him before he'd gotten to his main points, as in, the actual swearwords.

Changing the slide once more revealed a page with three categories listed, though they formed an inverted triangle indicating, it seemed, their importance or severity. The first of these categories was entitled '_Expletives_' and this sat at the very bottom of the inverted triangle. Above it, sitting side by side, were another two categories listed as '_Adjectival Swearing_' and '_Sexual References_'. Britain was glad that research had already been done into this area: it saved him hours of self-analysis (which was often an uncomfortable experience at the best of times) and, likely enough, a couple more hours on top of that which would have been spent trying to group swearwords into neat, tidy little categories.

"So, '_Expletives_' are fairly self-explanatory. Here, I mean exclamatory words of shock, surprise, hurt _et cetera_. Expletives in British English vary in severity. Words like _crap, balls, blimey _and _crikey _are considered to be very weak. Words like _shit _and _fuck _are considered to be strong, bordering on very strong, but then we also have words that sit somewhere in between; words like _bollocks, bugger _and _arse. _Any questions so far?"

"Dude, you're pronouncing it wrong!" shouted America, before anyone else could even realise that they had just been told they could ask questions, "It's _ass_."

"No," frowned Britain, "An _ass _is a sort of donkey: an _arse _is your bottom. Anyone-"

"Dude," interrupted America, "It's definitely _ass_."

"In Britain, we say _arse_ and we don't care what you say in America, because that's how we say it, that's how we've said it for quite a while now, and we're not going to change it just because you think we say it funny," retorted Britain, "Anyone else? No? Good."

The queried 'no?' was a lie. At least three other nations had their hands up when Britain had asked if anyone else had questions. Realising that America had put Britain into, at least temporarily, a bad mood, the nations in question turned to glare at the American, though the few that happened to see Canada glared at him instead, much to Canada's disturbed disapproval. A short, sharp cough returned their attention to the Englishman as he went about ignoring America and continuing his talk, which, surprisingly enough, had only sent Ireland and a couple of Commonwealth nations to sleep so far (most notably Australia and New Zealand).

"There's '_Adjectival Swearing_' which consists of words such as _fucking, pissing, _and _sodding_. I suppose _bloody_, _blinking_ and _bleeding_ would come under this as well, but really, only _'fucking' _is considered to be strong enough to offend. Both _pissing _and _sodding _are weak, though _sodding _less so than _pissing_. Again, there are more comprehensive and detailed lists in your briefs, if you want to have a look at them."

Despite the amount of confusion evidently caused by the word '_sodding_', there was no way in hell that Britain was going to explain what it meant. For one, it was written down. On the other side of it, it was one of the many words in British English slang that referred to anal sex, or, as another euphemism would put it, 'taking it up the arse'. It would just be embarrassing to have to say out loud that this was another one of those words. Britain knew it was written down in the briefs, but saying it out loud was another thing entirely. He could blag his way into convincing them it was a typing error it if it was written down, but if he'd said it, doing so would be a little bit more difficult.

"Then there's '_Sexual References_' which consists of words like _shag, bonk, bang, prick, dick, cock, pussy _and some other similar words, which are, again, listed in the briefs. Words such as _shag _are seen as weaker than others such as _pussy _and _prick, _which are seen by many as being a fair bit stronger. '_Shag_' in particular can be used affectionately, so can _pussy_, arguably, but many of the others sound too harsh to be in any way endearing."

Britain saw Germany flinch ever so slightly on the word '_pussy_'. Britain additionally knew why Germany did so when this particular word was spoken. Britain fondly recalled the day when that particular song had been released. Germany had rung him up on his mobile to warn him of the song and to apologise 'unconditionally' for its creation and lyrics. Personally, the Englishman found that only a small group in his population knew the song, and those who knew of it found it quite funny and catchy, so Britain wasn't actually anywhere near as offended as he would have been were the song created by a much more renowned band.

"As a general note, _bang _retains its American English meanings in British English. So as well being onomatopoeic for describing an explosion, and being used to describe the action of beating someone up, in British English it has the additional meaning of having sex with someone, much to the amusement of slightly older generations."

Britain had to restrain hysterical laughter as he observed America's face expressing something that could be described only as sitting somewhere between complete shock and utter horror. It reminded Britain of the face that Wolverhampton teenager had expressed when Britain had (in response to 'I'm gonna bang 'im up') stated, 'Just remember to use a condom, okay?' Oh the face that poor child had made! The imported American meaning was just _so _much fun to mess around with, bless the silly West Midland children! They had _no _idea what it meant in British English until someone pointed it out to them (usually to the amusement to everyone in the near vicinity who had undoubtedly been thinking the exact same thing).

"Okay, so, moving on, we have the last big three areas. For the British, these are the _bad _words that you only say in very specific circumstances, such as to _very _close friends, who know you are joking, or in very, _very _high-stress situations. The last two, I won't delve into too much, because it would feel _inherently wrong _to do so.

"These last three categories are '_Directive Abuse_', '_Abuse of Minorities_' and '_Racial Abuse_'. The last two are considered the worst, by far. Use of any of those words is normally met with national outrage. The only exception is the near-common usage of words like _spaz _and _retard _by teenagers. This is still frowned upon, but more often accepted as they don't really mean them to refer to the mentally ill anymore.

"I'm just going to focus on '_Directive Abuse_'. You can read up on the other two if you really want to, but it's too uncomfortable for me to talk about it. As the name suggests, '_Directive Abuse_' consists of swearwords or insults used in reference to someone, usually as a sort of verbal attack on them. These consist of the 'big' swearwords, though it has many smaller ones as well."

The room (minus the Commonwealth, which was beginning to collectively fall asleep) was silent and utterly fascinated. Every language has swearwords and every language has conventions and rules for these swearwords: when it is acceptable to use them, how you use them and around whom it is acceptable to use them. Hearing another language/country's perspective on the ranking and use of these swearwords was interesting to say the least, and little did Britain know, it would start a whole series of similar lecture/meetings that would eventually ensure that every nation in the UN would know every other country's major swearwords and when they ought to be used. Whilst this could be seen as a good thing, it would inevitably dissolve into chaos (though no one would notice, because _all_ of their meetings dissolved into chaos anyway).

"There are terms of '_Directive Abuse_' that are considered weak, but are still very, very harsh. Words such as _slag, slut _and_ whore _are fairly strong, you would never use them to talk about a friend, for example. _Bitch _and _bastard _can be used affectionately, and frequently are amongst friend groups, though it depends greatly on the tone with which they are said. _Tosser _is a very watered down version of _wanker _and so is used to refer to someone you don't like: this can be playful or otherwise, depending on the circumstances.

"_Wanker, fuck/fucker, shit _and so on are seen as very strong, and will cause offense in all circumstances, I have never heard of these words being used affectionately. Then of course, there is the C word, and I'm not talking about the word _crap_. It largely depends on where you are and who you're speaking to. Some people, usually from specific cities or areas, will use it frequently and casually. Others, and this is more prevalent among older generations from every city and region, will consider this word taboo. Generally speaking, the few who do use it, use if casually, and the many who don't consider it an unacceptable term. Any questions?"

_Perhaps an odd chapter, but one I feel is very important, simply because so many people seem ignorant of how strong words like '_wanker_' really are. I apologise if it wasn't what you were expecting, but hopefully it was interesting nonetheless._

*_they were both small, overpopulated islands with an often surprisingly temperate climate: seriously, next to Germany, Britain really does share a shocking amount of behavioural patterns with Japan_

_*subtle invisible queues that form when trying to buy alcohol at a bar: unless you have a really inexperienced barman, they'll know exactly when it's your turn_

_*sounded cute and endearing, rather than like a sharp insult meant to injure: this is, in my head, the _only _explanation as to how '_wanker_' appeared in a Simpson's episode_

_*the robots in the third Transformers movie really do say _'wankers'_, I was really very surprised (partly that I'd even noticed it, but mostly that the British hadn't thought to do something about it – they probably couldn't by that stage, but still!)_

_*half of the Middle East spent most of their time glaring at him: America and the Middle East don't have the best history, hence the glaring_

_*_'_Delete expletives?_': _you can read this online if you feel so inclined, just Google it_

_*les goddams: during the 100 Years War, the French noticed that the English (wasn't UK at the time) take God's name in vain an awful lot, so they came up with 'les goddams' to taunt us about it (as though we'd even care)_

_*this whole paragraph about Germany is referring to the song _Pussy _by _Rammstein_, if you don't know it and Youtube it, DO NOT watch the official video, seriously, it's basically porn or so I've been told_

_*my Mom likes playing this trick on her pupils, because '_bang_' to them means '_beat up_' but to her means '_shag_', so it's always a good laugh_

_*national outrage: I can't remember who it was, but once, someone said n***** on Big Brother and there was an outcry from the public, racial slurs referring to ethnic minorities such as blacks and Asians are heavily frowned upon_

_*the C word: it frequently ranks as the no.1 worst swearword in surveys and reports_


	20. 25th March 1458

**Thank you to **Fall in Snow**, **Tazzilicious**, **HoshiUta**, **Captain Happiness**, **Frogbert**, **iii**, **I Am One With Mother Russia**, **Duckster's Rave**, **Ninja Lady Jae**, **xMaddie** and **Korean Boron-Paper Stars **for reviewing. I can't remember if I replied to all of you, but your reviews are always appreciated, and I do have a good think about what you say (ROI will be making more appearances in the future).**

_In response to iii's review regarding the last chapter, I didn't know 'bang' was recognised in both senses in America, though that's definitely interesting to know. As for the C word, it is far more frequent in young people, but it is never used to the extent 'fuck' is. Among the older generations, it's still very much a taboo word._

**I am still alive, and I will continue to update when I have time to write. Thank you for your patience.**

_How England may have reacted to the Archbishop of Canterbury's attempt to reconcile the House of Lancaster and the House of York. _

**A/N: Rather a large mistake, to be honest, but the use of Early Modern English in my Wars of the Roses chapter is completely inaccurate. They would have been speaking Middle English. However, for continued understanding, I will be using Early Modern English with occasional Middle English phrases or words.**

_Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter._

**Love Day**

**24th March 1458**

Light was streaming in through the window in that very beautiful, mystical sort of way that always draws the eyes towards it and Adam would have perhaps paused to marvel it, were he not more occupied by other matters. Adam crept forward slowly. Though this was a bizarre action as the person who he was creeping up on was the person whom he intended to wake up. Thus, his slow creeping was entirely questionable. Adam was making his way towards someone who he had taken charge of almost three years earlier. That someone was of unimaginable significance, though the person's age and stature did not indicate anything of the sort.

The young man in question appeared to be eighteen. What would have been odd, were it not for the man's inherent oddness, was the fact that he had appeared eighteen three years ago and had changed very little in the intermittent time. The man, or, more accurately, the nation, was as old as many of his neighbours and yet seemed to carry more scars, but he had been a rather attractive thing as a small child, one that attracted foreign nations like candlelight drew in surrounding moths. One such scar was visible only when the nation was sleeping, as it sat just under his ear and was usually obscured by his messy, straw-blonde hair.

Leaning forward, Adam gently pushed a few strands of golden hair away from the faint, skin-coloured scar that sliced across England's neck just under his ear. He gently brushed it, fascinated. Wondering what it symbolised, what had caused it and how many more would appear on England's yet young body before his days were numbered. Beneath his touches, England grumbled irritably and fidgeted away. Adam snapped his hand away quickly, remembering suddenly how harshly England had reacted to similar touches from his ghostly twins. Looking to England's face to check his hand had moved away in time, Adam was greeted by the sharpest green eyes that he had ever seen.

"What wilt thou?" hissed England sharply, and with one that seemed all too unnatural for one so recently awoken. When no response came, England repeated the question with an increasingly audible acidity and mistrust, "What _wilt thou_?"

"Thine scar," whispered Adam quickly, breathless from the aggression of his charge and waving at his own left ear as though it would explain his behaviour by itself, "Th… scar."

"Hmmm?" asked England with a confused frown. He reached up to his left ear and gently traced the scar. His eyes widened ever so slightly and a faint shudder shook his frame. England swiftly retrieved his hand from the scar, eyes glazing over for an almost invisible few seconds before he looked up with a weak smile.

"England?" asked Adam, warily.

"_Lindisfarena*._" smiled England.

"Lindisfarne?*" asked Adam, before pausing, "Oh."

"_Sikerly*_," replied England, with a visibly discomforted smile, "Wherefore art thou here?"

"It is Love Day," explained Adam, unaware that he was wringing his hands nervously, unconsciously terrified by the potential reactions of his charge, "The King would avert civil war."

England stared at him in such a way that could only be described as utter scepticism, though responding to the stare, Adam would have sworn that there was the tiniest undercurrent of hope, perhaps even the smallest essence of desperation. England turned his head away sharply as Adam's eyes began to take on the familiar shimmer of sympathy, of pity, that England felt he was all too familiar with. Turning his head in such a manner, England pointedly and angrily directed his glare towards an unfortunate rat that happened to be washing itself not all that quietly in the far corner of the fairly dilapidated and abandoned barn.

"England?"

An aggressive snort, distrustful and unbelieving, was followed by short, sharp breaths, that would have worried Adam, had he not known the nation well enough to realise that the man was giggling. When England giggled, it was something unnatural and upsetting. He never giggled when he was happy or amused, only when he was doing so hysterically in response to something he did not like. As soon as England had been evacuated from the King's tent at the Battle of St Albans, he had begun to laugh, cry and giggle hysterically, desperately clasping onto his head, as though to make sure it was still there. Adam could not help but wonder how terrible the ordeal of potential civil war must be that it could reduce his nation to such a state.

"England?" pressed Adam, his voice becoming more insistent now, more concerned, more worried, more terrified, "England!"

The response was so quiet that it was something eerie and uncomfortable. The room's silence did nothing but dramatically emphasise the power that lay behind the spoken words of his still young nation. There was something altogether uncanny about words of such frank wisdom escaping a body that appeared so young and inexperienced. Perhaps the eeriness lay in the utter surety of the statement, and that the statement came from the only creature in the world that would know before all else. Or maybe Adam's concern lay elsewhere, in the discomforting fact that the statement was so sure and that he would be marching England to Hoy and Hol, as England had taken to naming them.

"_It is no drede*_," hissed England, "Civil War is already upon us."

**Outside St Paul's Cathedral, London...**

"Wilt thou truly be here?"

"I have no choice."

"Thou dost."

England harrumphs sceptically.

The two, draped in cloaks that look as though they have been pulled from thorn bushes and poorly repaired by a woman with impaired vision, stand amongst the crowd, hiding barely two rows behind those with the best view. It is a sunny day, which England has already said feels remarkably inappropriate, and the sun beats down through the clouds with these fantastic sheets of golden, dappled, miraculous light, that England distrusts as much as he does the two rows of nobles that are entering the Cathedral at a snail's pace. They were moving as slowly as the bloody war, remarks England in the dusty, cold silence of his mind.

Sure, a settlement had been made between the two houses, with members of each house being called to pay fines* to a member of the other house for the damage inflicted, but that did not mean a thing to these men. They had arrived to the negotiations with armed men far too numerous in number to be something as subtle as an armed guard: no, they had arrived to these negotiations in London with armies*. You do not, England pointedly told Adam, arrive at a negotiation table with an army unless you have some ill intent towards those with whom you are supposed to be negotiating.

England watches with a clenched jaw, so clenched that it very much looks as though it will never open again, and fists so enclosed and tightened that the young man's entire frame visibly shakes from the effort of keeping those fists thus. The young nation's green eyes glower with an acidity and hatred more intense than could ever be considered reasonable. This reaction of England's materialised shortly after Queen Margaret fell into view. Margaret on the arm of York, Somerset on the arm of Salisbury, all walking behind the King.

The King, Henry VI, was resplendent in his royal garb, while his nation stood, hidden in the crowd in the clothes of a pauper. This did not anger England perhaps as much as it ought to, for England had felt incredibly close to those remaining people whose loyalty had not yet been decided, and that, he had found, was a welcome change. What did anger England, to such a degree that Adam had to clasp suddenly onto the man to prevent him charging through the crowd, was the appearance of Hol and Hoy, or the ghostly apparitions of the House of Lancaster and the House of York. The two were walking arm in arm but the anger and bloodlust that floated between them was as solid an object as the ground on which we tread.

England has never had the talent of lip reading, though he usually attributes this lack of ability to the fact that he had always tried, as a young child, to lip read his invaders, who never spoke a tongue he was able to recognise. However, as these two creatures were as much a part of him as London was his heart, he could hear with perfect clarity every word that passed between them. Adam did not know this, and often wondered why England's nightmares and 'daymares' were so frequent, unaware that England was in fact entering a state where he could hear the vindictive, vicious comments passing between his psychotic twins. There was nothing more disturbing to the nation than hearing the poisonous promises and outrageous oaths that passed between those to heathen ghosts.

**"England is mine, cousin."**

**"My chuck hath more brains than to be thine."**

**"Sense thou his soul? He is here for me."**

**"I know he is not."**

England's fists released and he began violently shaking. Adam immediately reacted, grabbing and squeezing the Englishman's forearm, to reassure him of something Adam could not imagine, let alone guarantee. Who was Adam to promise England that everything would be okay, that everything would work out for the better? Even if the humans seemed amicable enough, the behaviour of the phantom twins was not reassuring in the least, and the two seemed to be gagging for a fight, begging the Heavens to allow them to quarrel and fight and stab and conquer and England was not, therefore, at all reassured by the gentle pressure being applied to his forearm.

Love Day was a pathetic facade. Everyone knew it was never going to last*, there were the few optimistic fools who dared to think that maybe it would stop the tensions, but they were clearly lacking intelligence and were largely ignored. Historically, where the Crown was involved, any potential civil war was almost made certain. England was sure that the Crown did something to the minds of men (and women actually, just look at Queen Margaret). There was something about absolute power that tainted the minds of everyone close enough to grasp it. With two branches of the same house supported by two armies now both gagging for that power, England had not a doubt in his mind that civil war was upon them.

It would never last. Love Day? It was a nice enough attempt, and the intentions behind it were pure enough, even if the primary intention did seem to be self-preservation, but it would never last. England has been a nation for too long to not know the behaviour of humans. It no longer mattered that he could not feel the Yorks of Lancasters, because he knew full well what they were thinking. They thought as all Englishmen do. They do not want a war, they will take part in negotiations to avoid war, but this simply means they will fight all the more fiercely when the war finally does begin in earnest.

"_I wille wende awei,*_" whispers England, breathlessly, as though saying the words have cost him his life, as though someone will suddenly leap out of thin air with a knife and pierce his chest, "_I pray thee.*_"

Adam hears and can barely contain his surprise. In his three years of knowing England, never has he heard those three words. England never asked for anything. He would starve for lack of asking, if Adam did not provide food without ever asking if England wanted some. What Adam did not provide England, England took. Adam had never thought much about the power of words, but in that brief moment, where the murmurings of the crowd around them seemed to fall all but silent, Adam was in no doubt that words could hold more power than any King. Adam nods simply and ever so slightly, as though somehow afraid that Hoy and Hol will notice, and pulls England away from the gathering mass outside of the cathedral.

They do not walk quickly, for the fear of detection lingers in both of their minds, they do not walk slowly, for the fear of being followed is ever present, and they do not look behind them, for they are terrified of what they might find there. Neither of them have encountered either of the two ghostly twins since the battle at St Albans in 1455, and neither of them are very keen on seeing them again. England has nightmares and daymares of their wicked conversations, and their even more poisonous thoughts, and Adam suffers from nightmares and his overactive imagination. They have spent their last three years in hiding, and they are both sure that this trend will continue, unless they are caught, which is a prospect which implants far more fear into them than any other possibility.

They are barely ten minutes away when they here ghostly whistling tearing down the street behind them. England freezes in his tracks, his entire body seizing up as though roots have suddenly erupted from the balls of his feet and taken root in the ground below. Adam knows all too well that any encounter with these two personifications could very well end his still-young life. He stares imploringly into England's acidic and calming and utterly terrified green orbs and the smallest of nods is all the confirmation, all the acknowledgement Adam will receive. Adam will be back, they both know this, but it is better for him to hide until the god-like creatures have finished their unearthly discussions.

The whistling is familiar, England remarks mentally, as it wisps through the biting March winds, dancing through the blasting torrents of gushing air as though it were a fairy, immune to nature's hardships in ways nations and humans could never ever hope to be. In fact, England notes as he stands frozen in the storm but not by it, there are words that belong to this tiny little familiar ditty. He cannot recall from which region it stems, and the words are too canny for him to notice the slight regional dialect which is hidden within the lyrics, but it is familiar, and somehow comforting, and in a moment of blindness, he begins to quietly sing along to the unpleasant, spine-chilling whistle.

"~_Fowles in the frith~*" _England pauses, and wonders briefly why he is responding to the whistling at all, being who is likely at the other end of it, but he continues, acting blindly, "_~The fisshes in the flod~*"_

"~_And I mon waxe wod~*_"

Why did he respond? Why? What possessed him to indicate that it was him? By singing along, he had produced a huge, flashing white signal that screamed 'look, I am here'. It is not just the one of them either, he is sure of that much. The two of them were likely standing behind him, inching closer and closer, disgustingly _lusting _after him as much as they were lovingly _hating _each other. He can imagine their hands: one free, and all too happy to reach out and _touch_, the second hovering over a sword hilt, and all too happy to unsheathe and obliterate anything in the way. England wants to run, and his body is all but screaming at him to do so, but Lancaster and York are part of him: they are cities, and these two phantoms call out to those cities, freezing England to the ground, so powerful is their influence over these cities.

"_~Mulch sorwe I walke with~*_"

Why could these two personifications not own Lancaster and York themselves and have bodies? It would have prevented this. It would have let England run far, far away, but no. No, England maintained control of Lancaster and York, so the personifications could tie him down, pull him in and, given the chance, never let him go. This happened when England was the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms: every Kingdom's phantom personification could hold him in place as though tying an invisible rope around his neck. To a lesser degree, regions still held sway over him, but they could not hold him in place as they had before, as Hol and Hoy could now. It was terrifying and England was petrified, shaken from his wits the moment he could no longer walk forward.

_Oh God_, England prays silently, he can feel them behind him and all he wants to do is run far, far away. Violent shivers and shudders suddenly begin to wrack his body, caused, no doubt, by the gradual encroachment of the dreaded Red and White Roses. Nations know from the moment they are created, formed, united, that civil war is inherently wrong. However, some nations, despite the sick that threatened to pour from their mouths every time their ghostly counterparts neared, welcomed the wars. They saw it as an opportunity for mass and speedy change. England had never thought this way. Deep at heart, England is as traditionalist as they come; change on a large scale is something discomforting and unpleasant.

"_**For best of boon and blod~**_*"

The way their voices complimented each other has never struck England before they sing together, harmonising automatically, perhaps without even realising it. Their voices fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, cuddling snugly side by side as a bitch will cuddle her pups. England finds this accidental perfection ironic and this amuses him to no end, despite the surging, powerfully terrified emotions coursing through his blood stream. If England had thought, perhaps, just a little bit deeper, maybe he would have come to another conclusion entirely. That maybe there was never meant to be a White Rose and a Red Rose. That maybe there was only ever supposed to be one Rose of two colours. England does not think any deeper, and he does not arrive at any other sort of conclusion, instead simply marvelling at the impossibly coincidental irony. Still being religious, England blames this irony on God.

"_My _chuck," begins the House of Lancaster, "There is no longer quarrel between my cousin and I; thou canst rest and cease thy flight."

"Pah!" scoffs England, feigning confidence against the terrible cold nausea sweeping through him, "Speak true, or leave."

The House of York, white as snow, and equally as cold, sweeps into his vision as England tries fruitlessly to concoct some plan for escaping from his predicament. Beside being rescued or suddenly finding a way to force the two phantoms to release their hold over the cities of York and Lancaster, England can see no escape, which does little beside amuse him. Nations would kill for this sort of power over one another, and yet only their weaker regional personifications held this sort of sway, whilst this fact does not present itself as being remarkably ironic, it does amuse England almost enough to smile. Unfortunately, he is looking at the House of York, so the very thought of smiling immediately evaporates.

"_My _love," begins Hoy, white eyes so concerned that England swears it is faked, "Wherefore art thou so afeard?"

England glowers sceptically in response. They know exactly what the problem is, the bastards. You cannot unknowingly hold a nation in place by exerting conscious control over a certain area; they know exactly why he is still standing where he is. If England had but a single second of freedom, he would use it to carry himself as far away from them as possible. England is already quite sure that they can feel his resistance against their control mounting (England has never known when he is defeated). All England needs is a distraction, something to highlight the weakest link in their control, and he will leap out, tear it apart and run as far as he needs to, even if that means he has to run to wildest hills of Scotland.

"_Siker segge*,_" sings Hol as he approaches from behind, softly running his palm across England's shoulders, "Wilt thou not come with me?"

"_Nyce tulk*._" hisses England, trying to jerk away from the touch, but unable to do so, much to his distress.

"Haha!" bellows the House of York in response to England's admittedly very mild insult, "My love hath more brains than to be with thee!"

"_Pes, chorl*._" spits England, sure to make sure the pair are equally insulted, for they are both idiots in the same regard: they are both idiots for thinking he will willingly go anywhere with either of them. Years of invasions have taught England that scepticism is by no means a negative asset.

The White Rose frowns at him and all of a sudden, it's not nausea flooding his body, it's unadulterated fear. That frown, that anger, is utterly terrifying. It reminds England of his very first encounter with the Vikings (England will never remember whether he saw Denmark or Sweden or Norway*, because his memories of the first Vikings are those of fire and blood and axes and wondering just where his elder brothers have gone). England stares into those white eyes and feels sharp nails suddenly and slowly tearing into his left shoulder. His first thoughts are of how much he dislikes these two aggressive branches and their battle for his monarchy. His second set of thoughts are more immediate. They fear what these terrifying ghosts will do to him, and they fear even more the possibility that no one will rescue him, or help him, after all, why should anyone get involved?

It is as the nails break through his clothes and into his skin and as the House of York swiftly unsheathes a tiny but threatening dagger from his belt that England begins to wonder what possessed him to even come to Love Day. He had known from the start it was a load of rubbish, and now all he was being threatened by the very beings who lusted after him in a way he was really very uncomfortable with. What a sorry mess these power-grabbing humans had created. Did they know their country was on the cusp of a civil war? Did they even care? As England sees that dagger glisten in the early spring's sunlight, he cannot help but wonder if his King even cares that he is missing, when the King has the more loyal and more obedient House of Lancaster to shout at.

The House of York turns England's head slowly; he need not do it with any haste as work lies in the North of England, and so England's body does not even think to hesitate, much to England's own horror. The knife is gently lowered behind his unmarked ear. What a remarkable coincidence it is that the House of York should think to mark the ear that has not already been scarred, what is unsurprising is that he has marked the side which lies in the North West of England, Lancastrian territory. As the knife gently pulls the skin apart, and a tiny, irritating stream of bloody droplets begin to weep from the wound, England cannot help but wonder how he did not see this coming sooner. Henry IV had stolen the Crown from a York, so how did England not suspect that the York's might harbour some ill feeling? How did England suspect nothing for so long?

"OI!" shouts an enthusiastic voice from somewhere behind England, and suddenly England feels as happy as that voice sounds, because he knows who it is and the next words spoken merely confirm England's deepest hopes, "_Lloegr_!*"

"_Gramercy.*_" whispers England softly, though loud enough for his phantom twins to hear and grimace at the idea that England would be rescued by a _walshe* _before asking either of them for help.

"_Lloegr_?" the doubt is now audible in his voice as he approaches, as he begins to realise something is wrong, that the two men standing all-too-close to his target are clearly not friends, "_Lloegr_?"

An idea strikes England and he smiles. He can escape. Or so he initially, foolishly thinks.

"_Lloegr!_" the voice is more insistent now, concerned, and perhaps a bit annoyed by the lack of response, "_Lloegr!"_

England thinks he is sure as an expression of fear erupts onto the House of York's face. What England does not realise is that the House of Lancaster, behind him, whose owns the principality of Wales, is smiling.

"_Helpwch fi!*_" shouts England with a voice that is smug with victory, and very unlike the normal tone of voice that would cry out that sort of request, "Wales! _Helpwch fi!"_

The House of York, England knows, does not speak Welsh. Unfortunately for England, the House of York is not so stupid that he cannot guess what sort of request might have been shouted out. As Wales begins running forwards, with mixed intentions, the House of Lancaster releases his grip on England's shoulder and, England does not notice, does not run anywhere. The White Rose, Hoy, the House of York, decides that he wants one last thing, before turning tail and running as fast as his legs can carry him. Plunging his knife into England's upper right arm and swiftly removing it, York smirks and runs off, moving far too quickly and England notices that Lancaster is still there and England's surety has suddenly begun crumbling away.

"_Lloegr_?" begins Wales as he approaches England at a slowing jogging pace, "_Shwmae?*_"

"I thank thee, Wales." replies England simply.

"_Shwmae?_" repeats Wales, incredulous and curious.

"I am fine," hissed England, turning away, and grasping his bloody arm in a vain attempt to cease its bleeding, "Thou canst leave."

"We cannot leave thee, _my _chuck," states the House of Lancaster simply, "Without thee."

"Wales?" asks England, voice beginning to quiver without his permission.

"I cannot leave, thou wilt aid," replies Wales, edging closer towards England, who - now able to move - was edging further away, "I knew not that thou canst speak _Cymraeg*_."

"Lancaster, thou art to leave mine presence," begins England, hoping with all his heart that they will leave him be, "Thou too, Wales."

The House of Lancaster takes a step forwards, his eyes burning with loving concern, but terrifying England all the same. His hand - his _marked _hand, the one _marked _by the Red Rose - gently moves upwards, towards England's face. England jerks away suddenly, horrified by the idea of that hand being anywhere near him, but he does not move fast enough. The Red Rose tattoo-like-marking presses delicately against his chin and shockwaves fire through England's body. These shockwaves do not hurt but they are not pleasurable in any way either, it is akin to being electrified, England would describe later. At the time, England was too surprised by the sensations to even think to describe or rationalise them.

Finally succeeding in jerking away, England stumbles to the floor, eyes wide with emotionless green orbs. As his body begins to forget the sensations, England looks up into Wales's soft eyes, begging, demanding to know why Wales has done nothing to stop the House of Lancaster from doing, well, whatever it was the House of Lancaster had done. England gazes, glowers, glares into the Welshman's orbs, in the hope of seeing something reassuring there, in the hope of seeing something that was not undying loyalty to the House of Lancaster. Then England sees it, hidden deep within Wales's eyes. It is a confused feeling, due to the myriad of emotions that are attached to it, but gazing into those eyes, England becomes sure that Wales does not want to help the House of Lancaster*.

Wales still harbours genuine and heartfelt contempt towards England for conquering him (shouting '_Twll dîn pob Sais!_'* every time he sees England) and so, there is a small degree of 'you are simply getting what you deserve' within those eyes. However, there is resentment towards the House of Lancaster as well, who only has Wales's loyalty because England had conquered Wales, meaning the ruling house (Lancaster) 'owns' Wales, so to speak. Lancaster only has his 'loyalty' in theory anyway, as Wales hates the Rose's guts as much as he does England's (who he still suspects of being responsible for the death of Owain Glyndŵr*). There is, however, also the mildest, tiniest trace of concern. Wales can no doubt see the unadulterated fear in England's eyes, the unadulterated fear that has not been seen since the Vikings first battered towns along his coastline, and this fear discomforts Wales, who is partly irritated that he was beaten by a child scared so easily, but who is mostly worried that perhaps this war will have a fundamental and major impact on the non-Celtic and increasingly aggressive and foreign land.

"England, chuck, thou art mine," states the Red Rose so softly that it's almost sickening, "Thou art property of our King, the great Henry VI. Wherefore wilt thou flee?"

"**I am not thine**," hisses England, with all the ferocity of a wild and cornered animal, and with matching eyes, "**Take thine face hence**."

"But chuck, dear, love," whispers the Red Rose, kneeling to capture England's clammy face with his burning hand once more, "The King asketh after thee every passing moment and 'twould not do to keep it as such."

The Red Rose's hand connects with England's cheek once more and England cries out, though he does not know why. Then he realises that the shockwaves are painful and intended to influence the minds of the ordinary citizens who have yet to side with one House or the other. England jerks away and fires Lancaster into Wales with a powerfully blind kick to the solar plexus. Lancaster groans and before anything can be done, England is on his feet and running as fast as his legs will carry him and his bloody upper arm. England will not have his remaining citizens made more prone to support one House or the other, England will not be made a lifeless, soulless personification of landmass, he simply will not allow it.

England runs like he has run when chased by Vikings or Jutes or Angles or Saxons or Normans*; he runs as though his continued existence relies on him getting himself as far away from those behind him as possible. However, it is a long road, and he can hear Lancaster's dogged ghostly feet pound the ground behind him to try and catch him. Wales, he hears distantly, feet moving rather unwillingly a the pace of a strolling and preoccupied sheep. England carries on running and comes to a very sudden and unexpected stop when a very familiar sound breaks into his hearing. He frowns and looks to his right, as confused by the sound as Lancaster is elated by his apparent surrender. Looking to his right, England decides immediately, was not the best idea, for a galloping horse heading straight for him is what greets him.

Diving out of the way at the nick of time, England is hauled up onto the seat (momentum is the method by which this is achieved as the rider is by no means strong enough to do so without some help from physics). Lancaster, to England's retrospective humour, runs straight into the side of the horse and does so with enough force to be thrown onto the ground in a confused haze. Wales trots up to the horse as slowly as he had been 'chasing' England with a look of admiration, which is translated as an admiration of comic timing, an admiration that the perfect timing of the horse's arrival knocked Lancaster to the floor. England smiles, looks to his rider and cannot withhold his surprise at the fact that it is Adam's goofy, and ever so slightly guilty, smile that greets him.

"Adam?" gasps England, "Where didst thou receive this horse?"

"THIEF! THIEF!"

"Oh." states England.

"_Yis_*." agrees Adam.

"'Twould do no good to stay here," explains Wales, furtively kicking Lancaster in the head as he begins to regain his wits, "I seem to have suddenly lost my vision. 'Tis the work of faeries, no doubt."

"_Gramercy,_" smiles England, "_Walshe._"

"_Prynhawn da*,_" nods Wales simply, "And _pob lwc*, Sais*._"

"THIEF!"

Adam needs no further warning. He rams his heels into the horse, who does not seem to particularly appreciate the action and who then charges down the street at a pace that seems far too quick to be safe. Though, as Adam would later discover, charging down streets on horseback at unhealthy speeds is somehow safer than trying to bandage a wounded England who does not wish to be treated.

_Love Day was a bit of a fail, because it did nothing to solve the problems between the two Houses and fighting resumed just a year or so later. The Archbishop tried, bless him, he just happened to fail rather dismally._

_*Lindisfarena: (Old English) Lindisfarne, a small island off the coast of North East England._

_*Lindisfarne: in 793, the monastery of Lindisfarne was attacked in a Viking raid, they raided Lindisfarne again in 875._

_*sikerly: (Middle English) certainly._

_*it is no drede: (Middle English) there is no doubt._

_*pay fines: examples of the fines that existed as part of the settlement are York's payment of 5,000 marks to Somerset and the Yorkists had to pay St Albans's Abbey a set fee every year for the souls of the battle dead._

_*they had arrived to these negotiations in London with armies: York took 400 supporters with him, Salisbury and Warwick took 500 and 600 respectively, Somerset came with 800 and a troop of five nobles took almost 1,500 supporters._

_*it was never going to last: squabbling broke out again in 1459._

_*I wille wende awei: (Middle English) I want to leave (lit. I want to walk away)._

_*I pray thee: (Middle English) please._

_*Fowles in the frith: a Middle English lyrical poem estimated to originate from the mid 14th Century._

_*Fowles in the frith: (Middle English) birds are in the forest._

_*The fisshes in the flod: (Middle English) the fish are in the water._

_*And I mon waxe wod: (Middle English) and I have to go crazy/must be going mad._

_*Mulch sorwe I walke with: (Middle English) I walk in great sorrow._

_*For best of boon and blod: (Middle English) for the best of bone and blood._

_*Siker segge: (ME, West Midlands Dialect) noble warrior._

_*Nyce tulk: (ME, West Midlands Dialect) foolish/weak/wanton man._

_*Pes, chorl: (Middle English) quiet, low-born man._

_*Denmark or Sweden or Norway: from what I was told in school, the Vikings came from all of these countries, so I'm just going to leave who he saw as ambiguous._

_*Lloegr: (Welsh) England._

_*Grammercy: (Middle English) thank you._

_*walshe: (Middle English) Welshman._

_*Helpwch fi: (Welsh) help me._

_*Shwmae?: (Welsh, South Wales) how are you?_

_*Cymraeg: (Welsh) Welsh._

_*Wales does not want to help the House of Lancaster: Wales was a Lancastrian stronghold, but the Welsh had been conquered by England and were probably not very thrilled by the idea._

_*Twll dîn pob Sais: (Welsh) down with the English (lit. an arsehole every Englishman)._

_*Owain Glyndŵr: a Welsh hero, and the last Welsh Prince of Wales, who lead a revolt against the English rule of Wales, he's hailed as a national hero but his final years are a complete mystery._

_*Vikings or Jutes or Angles or Saxons or Normans: seriously, England was invaded by anyone with a boat._

_*Yis: (Middle English) yes._

_*Prynhawn da: (Welsh) good afternoon._

_*pob lwc, Sais: (Welsh) good luck, Englishman._


	21. 28th August 2003

**I am still alive, and I'd just like to begin by thanking everyone for their patience and **Ninja Lady Jae**, **I Am One With Mother Russia**, **Sakura Lisette**, **HoshiUta**, **Tazzilicious **and **JuniperGentle** in particular for reviewing. Your feedback is always appreciated.**

**I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, so hopefully, you'll have a lot of fun reading it. It's upbeat and joke-y, and I appreciate it may not be what some of you were holding out for, but hopefully you'll enjoy it nonetheless. I will try as much as possible to do requests and to update faster, but I can't guarantee anything.**

_How Britain, the Republic of Ireland and other Nations may have responded to Britain's temporary affliction. _

_Words, phrases or foreign/dialectical words are followed by a * have notes at the end._

**Brummie is beautiful **

**28th August 2003**

"Wait! Hold the lift!"

It was one of Britain's aides, Susan Wheatley. Of course Britain was going to wait and hold the lift. Despite France's rumours, Britain only ever intentionally ignored such requests when they were coming from people shouting French. He understood, of course, he just didn't like the idea of helping France.

"Thanks, I'm already running a few minutes late!" rattled Susan, "I need to be upstairs in ten."

Britain nodded. Of course, there was the other meeting going on upstairs, wasn't there? How could he possibly have forgotten the barely significant meeting going on upstairs?

"You seem a bit quiet, Sir," remarked Susan, knowing Britain far too well for someone who'd only been working with him since Blair was re-elected in 2001, "Are you okay?"

Britain nodded again. He'd be damned before he spoke today, in his condition.

"Looks like your stop, Sir," noted Susan as the doors slid open with a ridiculously anti-climactic pinging sound, "Oh, before I forget, we had some clotted cream sent over - for the scones. Should be in your room by twelve."

"Brill!" smiled Britain, and before he could stop himself, his _condition _reveals itself, "Ta, bab*."

Britain's eyes widened, and his hands jumped up to his face to cover his mouth in horror, just as the expression on Susan's face is one of visible terror before the doors slid shut once more and the lift continued its upwards journey. Britain waited just thirty seconds for the shock to disappear and for him to regain some sense of dignity. Groaning dimly to himself, Britain remarked that today would be a terribly awful day, and that things were only liable to get worse from the all but wondrous day he'd been having so far.

Britain hadn't been having a particularly good morning, not that he regards any morning which involves waking up before six 'good' in any sense of the word. The reason that this morning in particular bothered him so much was because he and his siblings had made a disturbing discovery the night before, just a few hours before his flight to Poland. Why was Britain flying to Poland? Well, Poland was hosting the rather pretentiously named 'Sixth Meeting of the International Advisory Committee', which was part of UNESCO's 'Memory of the World' programme, and, as usual, Heads of State used it as an opportunity to shove a load of Nations in a room and get them to talk to each other, as though hoping that if they did this enough times, something constructive would eventually be achieved. Predictably, this would never be the case.

So, yes, Britain was in Gdansk in Poland to attend the Nations' World Meeting while the 'Sixth Meeting of the International Advisory Committee' was taking place several floors above. Several floors above, of course, because Nations' meetings would often become so noisy as to penetrate at least five floors, some of which were reportedly sound-proof. Not all the Nations of the World were present, of course, because it wasn't really a particularly important meeting, and a lot of Nations were under house arrest or needed elsewhere, or had nice leaders who didn't use every available opportunity to kick them out of the office for a few days. As Britain had Tony Blair, who was just waiting for an excuse to kick England out of the office so he couldn't moan about the Iraq War*, Britain was forced to attend the meeting. There were other reasons of course, such as the fact that certain other major Nations were there, but England and his brothers knew the real reason.

Not that his brothers had much sympathy for his situation. In fact, if anything, his siblings rather revelled in the fact that Britain was facing rather dire circumstances. Scotland and Wales found his predicament so amusing, that they asked Northern Ireland to pass on the message to the Republic of Ireland (affectionately known as ROI by Britain), who would be attending the meeting. This was so that ROI could take the piss out of Britain in place of the other UK Nations, who had been ordered to stay in the UK, despite the World Meeting, because Tony Blair rather liked the fact that they weren't in London as much, and so couldn't moan about the Iraq War. As such, Britain was aware that, should he so much as dare to open his mouth whilst the meeting was taking place, his circumstances would only take a more dramatic turn for the worst. He could hide the problem in a few short sentences, but a few words could be his undoing. Things weren't looking good for the Englishman.

"Ah! _Salut!*_" shouted a voice from down the corridor.

_Oh, fuck-a-duck, _thought Britain, _It's France._

As France is a European Nation who knows all too well the British dislike of touching, he immediately skipped (though he'd shoot someone in the face before admitting it) over and hooked his arm around the Brit's shoulders and back, knowing all too well how much the action would annoy him. Much to France's confusion, Britain simply tutted in response, before shrugging off France's arm and walking away at a surprisingly vigorous and determined pace. Canada, who was watching the scene from afar (knowing all too well from experience that standing a meter behind such an incident is liable to result in France being catapulted into your face), was as bemused as France, and walking up to France, the two shared a very much confused look. This was not normal Britain behaviour. This could either be something very worrying, or something very, very interesting, and undoubtedly something worth teasing. The two Nations silently agreed that it would be an interesting meeting before France stalked and Canada walked toward the Meeting Room. As they entered, they were greeted by a rather intriguing scene.

"Oh! 'Eeloo dere, Britain!" greeted cheerfully/shouted annoyingly the Republic of Ireland, with a fiercely wolfish grin on his face that told the whole room that something was irrevocably up, "Owaya?"

"Good," warned Britain simply, with what appeared a small, wary glare, and a mumbling, deliberately quiet voice, "An' you?"

"Oi'm good, t'anks for askin'," replied Ireland, the grin still etched rather firmly on his face and a mischievous gleam in his eyes that Britain was quite sure would make leprechauns tremble in their boots, "Yer nu, yer seem quiet today."

Britain fired an intensely fierce glare towards his brother, and the entire room paused and stared in fascination at the exchange. It was rare these days that there was animosity between the two brothers, and when there was, Britain was normally completely oblivious towards it, and so any sort of interaction between them that wasn't surprisingly brotherly or drunken, was a sight to behold (particularly as World Meetings were so intensely boring). Even America, who normally glomped Britain the moment he stepped foot in the room, was watching the exchange with all the interest he could muster without munching his way through popcorn. It was almost as interesting as that one time when a roaringly drunk Scotland gate-crashed one of Britain/England's presentations on methods of controlling binge drinking in the UK.

Britain knew that with his _condition _the way it was, getting angry would simply inflame the _condition's _obviousness even more. So, Britain simply shrugged in response, before taking his seat between America and, much to Britain's delight, India. Britain had always liked India, though he was very much sure that this hadn't been reciprocated until very recently. Why India was attending the meeting was a complete mystery to him - being as unimportant meetings like this only tended to consist of annoying Nations i.e. America, or Nations with leaders who just wanted an excuse to kick them out of the country for a bit. There were, of course, Nations like Canada, who attended in the hope of being noticed, but their hopes usually fell flat on their faces, because they were never quite noisy enough to grab attention. They would certainly not succeed in grabbing attention at this meeting, with Britain's _condition _just itching to ruin his reputation.

"_Namaskar*_, Britain!" smiled India, speaking Punjabi, because she knew that Britain was fluent in it, if his English accent made the words sound a little strange.

Britain had always loved India. Her eyes these days seem to be gleaming with a friendly warmth that Britain adores, that Britain adores almost enough to ignore the slightly emaciated figure. He can't ignore it, no matter how hard he tries, and no matter how nice he is to her now, he can't help but ignore the slight twitch of his hands, the slight twitch that tries to remind him of all he did and didn't do. He adores her culture now: scoffs down her curries (and his bastardised versions of them) as much as he munches away on his fish and chips, speaks at least three of her languages near fluently and chats away as happy as anything with her emigrants, who he has taken as his own. However, it's not enough for him to adore her culture and cuisine and to speak some of her languages, it's not enough to send aid and help and business. Britain knows that he has a lot to answer for, and that it will take a long time for those scars she carries to become less prominent, but there's nothing else he can do, besides try. So he beams back, and replies, hoping that the foreign language will hide his _condition_.

"_Thaṛī der tong tusī̃ naśar nahī̃ āe!*_" replied Britain, watching with a smirk as America's mouth gapes open ever so slightly, as though surprised that Britain can speak Punjabi. Frankly, Britain is just grateful that speaking a foreign language is enough to cover up the _condition_.

"Ey, Britain!" shouted Ireland, apparently very, very keen to reveal Britain's _condition_ to everyone present. As this World Meeting was dominated by a surprisingly large amount of important countries, Ireland's desire to reveal Britain's current problem was rather understandable. The bigger the countries that are there, the more likely Britain's two-day occasional two-day _condition_ would become common knowledge. If it was common knowledge, this would embarrass Britain beyond reason and amuse his siblings beyond sanity.

"**What?**" hissed Britain, hissing in an attempt to cover up the problem, which Ireland seemed rather intent on unveiling, "ROI."

"Dat's Éire* ter yer," replied Ireland slightly sharply, though not actually irritated, because he knew Britain was only using the term to try and hide the _condition_, "An Oi wus jist wonderin' whaen yer were gonna start."

Britain frowns, and the entire room is bemused by his frown, because the rest of the room bothered to look at the agenda in advance, whereas Britain hadn't (as he had been too busy moping about the unfortunate appearance of his _condition_). The rest of the room were aware that Britain was leading the World Meeting, whereas, despite having his notes with him, Britain had forgotten thanks to his intensive stressing over the _condition's _possibility of ruining his reputation once and for all. He sees Ireland's infuriatingly gleeful gaze and looks down, at the agenda, and begins to remember why he is sitting at the focal point of the room, with a lectern immediately to his right. His face as he realises this is so horrified, that other present nations actually began to worry.

"Are you okay?" asked India, looking up, with concern present in her bright eyes, "Is everything okay?"

"Ze almighty _Grande-Bretagne _has not forgotten 'is notes," began France, loudly, tauntingly and altogether with too much of a happy smile on his face, "As he?"

Britain stared blankly for a few seconds. He had very few options. He could run out of the room, but he'd have to explain that later and America would probably chase after him for some bizarre security reasons if a secret service agent didn't tackle him to the ground first. He could pretend to have suffered some major disaster, though they'd all find out a few hours later that this was a load of bollocks and tease him endlessly. He could flat out refuse to do the introduction, but that would be a very bad decision, and would likely reflect badly on his country, beside intensifying curiosity and probably getting the dreaded _condition _revealed anyway. As far as he could tell, he was doomed no matter what he did at this point, much to the ridiculously exaggerated glee being expressed by Ireland - the arsehole. It was all Wales's fault.

Britain nodded slowly, cleared his voice, mumbled an incoherent apology and stood up. Never before had a roomful of people seemed quite so daunting, which was ridiculous. In his time, Britain had faced _much, much _worse than a roomful of nations waiting for any available opportunity to taunt him. It was just the _condition _and Ireland's smug expression, and the lectern didn't do anything to protect him from the pure, unadulterated, pressurising stress he felt bearing down upon him like a very hungry looking wolf. He shuffled his notes around on the lectern in front of him. They weren't in need of shuffling, because they were in perfect order, but he thought it'd kill more time which could only be a good thing given the terrible, terrible words that were about to betray his _condition_, which had at this point grown so strong, that he began to feel small stirrings of _pride_. Today, he reasoned, would only end badly.

"Hello everybody," began Britain, pausing with an expression of faint horror as he heard his _condition _slip past. He panicked briefly, but no one (except ROI) appeared to have noticed, so he continued, flinchingly, "Can everyone hir hir me?"

"_Je peux pas_!*" declared France, irritatingly enough (Britain swore that man's mission was to annoy him as much as possible), "I can't 'ear you over ze sound of _Irlande's*_ sniggering!"

Britain fired an angry glare at Ireland, which silenced the Celtic Nation… briefly. Once Ireland had _temporarily _been silenced, Britain repeated his question (again flinching panickedly) and there were nods around the horseshoe formation of desks. Some nods were quite enthusiastic, such as... Canada's, whereas others were lazy half-nods, that indicated a half-interest that was probably only engaged in the first place because they sensed that something was up with their first speaker. Britain, who was beginning to develop a nervous cold sweat, couldn't help but wonder what evil genius had concocted an agenda where the meeting's hosting nation _wasn't _the nation doing the bloody introductions. Then again, Britain pondered quickly, it would have been Poland doing the introductions... maybe the evil genius wasn't quite so evil as sensible.

"Right, az we orl know," continued Britain, holding back a flinch, "The Sickth Meeting ov the International Advisory Committee ov UNESCO's Memory ov the World Programme iz being held upstairz."

Britain looked around nervously. He felt sorry for the lectern, frankly. It was a miracle the lectern hadn't splintered, given the intense amount of pressure he was applying to its sides. He was, though he'd never have admitted it to anyone ever, shitting himself. Anyone could hear the dreaded _condition _at any moment and then they'd be tearing into him like a pack of wild dogs. How they hadn't heard it already was a wonder in itself, particularly given the cues Ireland was giving them with his horrified and traumatised expression. Maybe they weren't noticing it? No. That was ridiculous. How could they _not _notice it? Maybe there was something wrong with the microphone that was hiding it...

"I've bin told that most ov ar speekers will be talking tuhday abowt their projects or the projects their country iz submitting," continued Britain, "Duz anyone have any questions?"

He was cutting out a massive chunk of his prepared notes in order to speak as little as possible. From what he could tell from the small self-deprecating, bizarre pride that was beginning to burn within him, it would only take one person to spot the _condition _for things to spiral out of control. It would only take one misplaced comment, one negative word, one case of mistaken identity for the _condition _to worsen and become more obvious and then Britain's life would officially be over and he'd have to start sending Scotland to meetings instead just to avoid the inevitable shame that would come with showing his face.

Britain scanned the room, counting to ten in his head and becoming more hopeful with every passing second that his mind acknowledged. Then, just as his mental clock was striving towards the wonderful, magical number of ten, he saw a hand slither lazily upwards from the one corner of the room that he had been hoping with all his heart would keep quiet. Why must the Republic of Ireland get involved? Why was he putting his hand up with the sort of maniacal grin that should only exist in cartoons? Why were his brothers such incorrigible bastards? Britain glared angrily at his brother, which only invoked further interest in whatever it was that was going on, and Ireland's continued maniacal evil smile did nothing to help dissipate the growing interest.

"_Wot?_" hissed Britain, visibly flinching as he hears himself, "Wot d'yuh want?"

"Ah nathin'," began Ireland with a smile indicating that it was very much not 'nothing' and that it was indeed a something that would be of colossal interest to everyone else in the room, "Oi wus jist wonderin' if Birmingham wus okay."

"Wot abowt it?" hissed Britain, having visibly reacted to the name of his second largest city, and even going so far as to entirely unconsciously place his hand over where his liver resided.

"Tis jist dat yer look like yer in pain," Ireland continued with a maniacal grin that was somehow growing more and more maniacal with each passing second, "An' we al' know how _rank_ Birmingham can be."

The reaction was immediate and utterly unexpected by all but two people in the room. No sooner had Ireland finished speaking, than an unhealthily heavy glass paperweight was sailing through the air towards him. All the eyes but two pairs of eyes in the room followed the flight path of the paperweight until it narrowly avoided hitting the ducking Ireland's head and skittered off towards the wall, taking a layer of carpet with it as it did. Slowly, as though expecting that if they moved too quickly they would also be greeted by a glass paperweight, the eyes of the room fell onto Britain, who was in a condition no one really expected, or, more importantly, understood.

One hand was unconsciously hovering over his liver, and the other was clamped around _another _glass paperweight, ready to fire it off in any direction at any moment. What was unexpected, however, was that the Briton's eyes were burning with an intensely stubborn fury, that no one had really seen for a good number of years. His thick eyebrows were furrowed to such a degree that it was impossible to tell whether they were separate entities at all, and his face was flushed ever so slightly pink, which was a sure sign that he was becoming incredibly irritated, incredibly quickly. It was a bizarre unfolding of events to say the very least.

"_Wot _waz that, Ireland?" growled Britain, "I didn't quite catch that."

"Oi wus jist sayin' dat it looks like Birmingham's causin' yer sum pain," continued Ireland, entirely unaffected by the intense glare of death that was being projected towards him, "Waat wi' 'ow shite it is."

"Dude, what's going on?" whispered America to France during the exchange.

"I do not know," replied France shrugging in a quintessentially French way, "But it will be interesting."

"Sorry, wot?" grumbled Britain, rumbling away like a thunderstorm does as it slowly approaches your house, "Wot were yuh sayin'?"

"Yer nu, yer voice sounds aff an' all," replied Ireland, blatantly undeterred by the daggers being fired in his direction by a very furious, British glare, "Yer almost sound Northern."

Oh that was the very last straw of Britain's admittedly very short patience, and in retrospect, maybe Ireland shouldn't have brought up the Northern/Southern issue, as it did end up giving him a mild concussion, as a result of the force with which the second paperweight had been thrown. The force behind the second paperweight was in fact so strong that the blue glass fractured ever so slightly. It was all too easy to forget that Britain was all too capable of punching a great deal higher than his weight should reasonably allow. Aside from that factor, anger is known to increase accuracy, power and swearing in the British Isles nations, so getting Britain angry when there was a paperweight in reach was probably not one of Ireland's better ideas.

"Birmingham iz _not_ in the North, you dozey backwater tosser!"

"Oh," began Ireland, almost giving off the air of sincere regret before a shit-eating smile graced his face and he added, "Is it in de South den?*"

Unfortunately, as there were no paperweights left, Ireland had clearly completely not thought about this plan in advance, as, faced with no other small things to throw at his sibling, Britain decided that the lectern looked increasingly appealing. Having already raised and lifted the lectern above his head, with some insane innate anger that would later earn him the nickname 'Hulk', Britain was only discouraged from throwing the damned object at Ireland because India gently squeezed his shoulder. India's presence, particularly given Britain's current _condition _meant that he calmed down almost immediately, if only because he imagined he would be rewarded with a curry or chocolate bar for doing so*.

"Duuude!" drolled America, apparently impressed by Britain's not entirely unusual display of violence, "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"_Oui, Grande-Bretagne_," said France, joining in with America because he could, "You do not normally attack your brozer like zis."

"And, dude, what's happened to your voice?"

Britain froze and Ireland's smile widened to such a degree that comparing him to the Joker would feel largely like the understatement of the century. Well, this had turned the tables somewhat. Just when Britain thought he was going to get away without anyone else remarking on the Devil's Accent, America finally plucked up and ruined it. And now the Republic of Ireland was inexplicably retrieving a camcorder from under his seat. How could Britain's life get any worse? Except for maybe being stuck with the accent for the rest of his life, there wasn't really much worse in Britain's view than this meeting becoming what would symbolise the collapse of worldwide respect for the English accent.

"Wot d'yuh mean?"

"It's… uh… you! Canadia!"

"It's Canada."

"How would you describe Britain's weird-ass accent, my main man?"

Quite why America felt the need to push his brother into describing it was largely beyond the vast majority of the room, though Britain felt quite sure that it was just because America lacked the necessary vocabulary to actually formulate a coherent response. No offence to the American, of course, because he could occasionally create absolutely mind-blowing speeches with plenty of words that Britain was pretty sure fell out of British English centuries ago, but this was clearly not one of those moments. The one advantage of asking Canada for a description was that at least Canada's timid vocabulary was consistent.

"Uh… lilting."

Britain paused, as did Ireland, and they both wore an expression of utter shock. 'Lilting' was certainly not the sort of response they were expecting; droning, ugly, hideous, I-want-to-rip-my-ears-out bad maybe, but certainly not 'lilting'.

"Waat do yer mean?" pressed Ireland, barely believing his ears, "Canny yer 'ear 'im?"

"I agree with Canadiana!" declared Poland, who many people, despite being _in _Poland, had somehow forgotten was even in the room, "It's like listening to a bird!"

"But it'z ugly!" retorted Britain, utterly perplexed as to how on Earth they thought a Brummie accent was lilting and like listening to birdsong, "It'z _inferior._ It soundz stupid! It'z fucking Brummie!"

"Brummie? Dude, what's that? Like a drink or somethin'?"

"Brummie?" asked India softly, as though the word was conjuring up some sense of familiarity, "This is what Birmingham people speak, right?"

Defeated and resigned to humiliation, Britain nodded, sinking down into his chair so that he could bury his face in his shame. America's laughter, which was ringing out around the room with the same pervasiveness that a fire alarm might wail throughout a building, simply made things worse for the British man, who had begun to assume that his life was officially over. In fact, so sure was he of this fact, that he was beginning to think of amputating his liver, Birmingham, simply to make himself feel (very temporarily) a bit better.

"You say it funny!" announced America blindly, "It's Burr-ming-ham!*"

"Burr-ming-um," grumbled Britain miserably, "Stupid tossing barmpot*."

"Oh!" began India, sounding like a child on Christmas morning, even clapping her hands together enthusiastically, "Brummie is so melodious and flowing! Speak some more, Britain!"

"_Oui!_" butted in France, as though he would collapse and die if he didn't have the room's attention every other minute, "It sounds much better zan your usual stupid accent."

"Uh," Britain looked up nervously, and with a completely straight face asked, "India, France, have you gone completely barmy? No wait, France was already barmy, but India? India, Brummie iz the worst English accent there iz!"

"Actually, I think we all find Cockney much more threatening." declared Austria from some obscure corner of the room beside Monaco and Andorra that Britain hadn't actually even noticed was there.

"Well, obviously," conceded Britain, as it is foolish to try and deny that Cockney (and Glaswegian) don't somehow make even the most innocent of phrases sound like a threat, "But Brummie iz the worst by far! It'z worse than bloody Geordie*!"

Even though Ireland was nodding viciously in agreement with Britain, the rest of the room of nations, by this point, had entirely lost track. They knew what Cockney was, the only two English accents you hear in American movies are Cockney and 'Posh', so that was fairly obvious, and Brummie had been explained, but that just left this bizarre 'Geordie' thing. I mean, how on Earth were they supposed to have any idea what city Geordie could be referring to? Unless there was a city called George or Geordge somewhere, but how would they know that? It's not like anyone had a map of obscure English cities anywhere.

"It really is." seconded Ireland.

At this point, it was fairly evident that Britain was becoming quite distressed. From what the other nations could tell, he was having one of those nasty days where you take one of your city's accents and the rest of your body viciously revolts against it. It is an unpleasant feeling at best, because one, admittedly small, minority of you feels very proud of the accent, and the rest of you feels it is horrible and ugly and should be wiped from the face of the planet. Poor Britain had managed to stumble into a situation where, not only was the accent disliked by the rest of him, but it was, indeed, the most hated accent of them all*. Every nation had been in that situation before, and so sympathised with him, well, every nation that wasn't as oblivious as a door knob.

"We may as well start ze meeting," stated Austria, unknowingly bringing a small smile to Britain's face (Britain had always found the incapability of non-English speaking nations to pronounce 'th' incredibly amusing*), "Being as we will likely get nowhere wiz it anyway."

In response to the sensible request, Britain sat down, the first speaker went up to speak and the meeting went by without any further disruptions. Actually, that is somewhat of a lie, because the meeting went by with several disruptions, just none of them major enough to warrant someone fetching the first aid kit – not that nations usually needed bandaging or anything, lots of them just liked wearing bandages because they looked 'cool'. France had a very particular reason for wanting to wear bandages (mainly in that it gave you sympathy points when flirting), but even those who had no particular reason, just seemed to like wearing them.

The several disruptions consisted of the usual: America interrupting people to suggest breaks in which he could stuff his face full of food, France groping anything that had legs and moved, and Britain sceptically remarking on every positive that could be drawn from any of the presentations. The other nations were going about their usual business, such as India, who spent every passing moment she wasn't paying attention working out cricket strategies to trounce the England team in the next test matches*. In fact, it was a relatively productive meeting that had, despite both Britain and France being in the same room, gone without further acts of violence until the end.

"Ey," called out Ireland to the rapidly escaping form of Britain, "Ey, Britain!"

"_Wot?_" hissed Britain, blocking the exit as he turned around to glare waves of daggers at his brother, "Wot d'yuh want now?"

Everyone knew what was coming. They hadn't seen the two brothers fight, like ever, because they were generally very agreeable, but even Birmingham's massive Irish community couldn't stop Britain lashing out at the next comment, which was a culturally specific comment, which flew massively over the heads of everyone except Britain and Ireland. All the room of nations really cared about was getting back to their bosses so that they could moan to them about the fact they'd ever been sent to such a pointless meeting in the first place, particularly when it was only a fraction more productive than a UN meeting (which, when the productivity of the UN could be described as minus several million, doesn't say much).

"Ow am ya?*" stated Ireland, with an appalling imitation of Britain's _apparently _'ugly' accent, and bearing a shite-eating grin that could only bode ill.

It was no surprise when Britain leapt over irritated lion style and started trying to thwack his brother in the face with a cricket bat that seemed to spring out of thin air. The rest of the room, not really interested in offering to bandage either of the two psychopathic island nations, left as soon as Britain had vacated the door way. India, bizarrely enough, stayed behind, but as it would later turn out, that was just so she could tell Britain to stop abusing her curries.

_If you haven't worked out which city I'm from now, despite constant name-dropping, you should have figured it out by now. Birmingham's accent always sits at the bottom of UK accent polls and is widely frowned upon. Funnily enough, this BBC article 'Brummie is beautiful' revealed it polls very highly with foreigners, who seem to actually like it._

_*bab: (Birmingham and Black Country English) roughly equivalent of babe, abbreviated form of 'babby', meaning baby_

_*'Sixth Meeting of the International Advisory Committee', which was part of UNESCO's 'Memory of the World' programme: it's related to a UNESCO project, but that's all I know_

*_so he couldn't moan about the Iraq War: a lot of Brits are __**still**__ sore about the Iraq War, it severely damaged our opinion of Blair and our opinion of America_

*_Salut: (French) Hello_

_*Namaskar: (Punjabi Hindu) Hello_

_*Thaṛī der tong tusī̃ naśar nahī̃ āe!: (Punjabi) Long time no see!_

_*Éire: (Irish) Ireland _

_*Je peux pas: (French) I can't_

_*Irlande : (French) Ireland_

_*iz not in the North & is it in de South?: there is a North/South divide in England, and people will judge you based on which bit you come from. Now, Birmingham belongs to the West Midlands region, which is part of the larger Midland region, as such, it is neither Northern nor Southern. This is something neither Northerners nor Southerners will understand, and it infuriates us to no end._

_*rewarded with a curry or chocolate bar for doing so: Birmingham is famous for its Balti Triangle, and the fact it created the balti, and Cadbury's chocolate, which was invented in Birmingham as well._

_*Burr-ming-ham: Americans or non-Brits will say 'ham' instead of 'um', which just makes us laugh when American bands come over and play Birmingham, because they just end up mispronouncing it all of the time._

_*barmpot: (Brummie and Black Country slang) silly person_

_*Geordie: the name given to Newcastle's accent, I'm sure there's another word for it, but I can't remember it._

_*the most hated of them all: Brummie has consistently come at the bottom of UK accent polls._

_*incapability... to pronounce 'th': most non-English speakers do seem to struggle with it, the French and Germans in particular._

_*cricket strategies to trounce the England team: India and England are quite competitive about cricket, and the English (cricket fans) go nuts when we win, because it doesn't actually happen as often as we'd perhaps like._

_*ow am ya?: (Black Country) how are you?_


	22. 12th May 2012

**Firstly, a thanks to **LilyRosetheDreamer **and **Tazzilicious**, and to whomever may have read the last chapter. Secondly, I would like to point out how counterproductive it is that I am inspired to write chapters for this during revision periods. I hope you enjoy this chapter, I certainly enjoyed writing it.**

_How Britain's reaction to the US government's intelligence leaks may have surprised France and America._

_Anything with a * marked after it has a note providing translation or further details at the end._

**Spy row over intelligence leaks**

**12****th**** May 2012**

_Eastern Daylight Saving Time_

_02:27 am_

RING! RING!

America groaned, his voice imitating the sound of someone attempting, and largely failing in this attempt, to grate a rock. He didn't know what time it was, and he wasn't about to bother finding out because he knew for a solid fact that the blaring red numbers would just give him a headache. Well there was that, and the chances were pretty high that he wouldn't be able to read them anyway. What he did know was that it was still dark outside, meaning it had to still be pretty early in the morning, which meant it was probably a European ringing him. Why did he jump to this particular conclusion? It might have something to do with the fact that Britain had promised to ring him in the middle of the night as payback for all of the occasions when America had done it to him. Considering the threats America is normally used to, the ones the Brits fired at him were relatively tame.

RING! RING!

It was at this point that America realised it wasn't his mobile phone that was ringing. His mobile phone had a snazzy, modern, with-the-times ringtone that would also handily tell him which country was ringing. His mobile phone was lying on the bedside table within easy reach. His mobile phone appeared to have died overnight because he forgot to plug it into the charger. What was ringing, much to his deep, deep annoyance, was his landline phone. The landline phone which was in the hallway at the top of the stairs. The landline phone that he had to cross the room and open a door to access. The landline phone that America would likely be throwing out of the window the next time it rang out in the middle of the night.

RING! RING!

It was actually quite curious that America didn't have a landline phone next to his bed like virtually every other sane nation on the planet. Or it would have been curious if America didn't have at least fifty-one houses*. It's difficult for most humans to keep track of where their possessions are in a single house, so it seemed perfectly reasonable for America to forget where the landline in each of his ridiculous number of houses was. It just so happened to be that this house in particular seemed to have a personal vendetta against his sleeping patterns, because it couldn't possibly have been America's fault that he left his mobile phone unplugged from the charger.

RING! RING!

His journey over to the phone was about as undetermined and unwilling as a child's journey to school is. In fact, the pace at which America was approaching the door that led out into the hallway that contained the phone largely indicated that he was hoping it would stop ringing before he got there, thus enabling him to go back to bed and sleep through a few early morning meetings. Much to the American's disappointment and irritation, the phone carried on ringing, even when he was standing in front of it. Who could be _that _determined to speak to him that they would continue to let the phone ring out past what a normal, sensible human being would? Then again, nations were neither normal, nor sensible, nor human.

RING! RING!

"Yeah?" droned America into the phone, sounding about as awake as he was, "Who is i'?"

"_Amérique!_"

"France?"

Well that had certainly woken up the drowsy American. Why the hell was France ringing? He'd been expecting Britain, or maybe another country threatening to blow up one of his cities in an attempt to kill him (which every nation knew wouldn't work, so the entire thing was pointless anyway). America had been expecting one of the 'Eurozone'* – was that right? He couldn't remember – countries to ring for a while, but most of them (i.e. Germany) seemed to be kind enough to wait until the time in America had become reasonable enough to warrant a phone call. Wait, was France even in the Eurozone? America couldn't remember. Maybe Britain was… or was that Ireland? European politics was just unnecessarily time consuming so far as America was concerned. This, however, was not about European politics. This was a much more dangerous game.

"Why the hell are you ringing at… what time is it anyway?"

"Look, ze time iz not important-"

"It is when I'm sleeping."

"Listen to me!" shouted France, "_D'accord?*_"

"Fine," conceded America, figuring that he was going to have to listen to the cheese-eating surrender monkey whatever the case, "What do you want?"

_Central European Summer Time_

_09:32 am_

"Ave you 'eard from _Grande-Bretagne_?"

France was pacing, slightly on edge. From America's tone, he had no idea just how serious his government's slip-up had been. France had known. France worked it out as soon as he'd seen it mentioned briefly in his papers, as soon as he'd received a phone call of furious English perforating his ear drums, and as soon as Wales had rang him to tell him of England's plan. France would probably later get an earful for having warned the American, and France himself was wondering just why he was helping the American when they weren't the best of friends in the first place, but France knew it would annoy Britain, and that's a good enough reason to do anything in the mind of our favourite Frenchman.

"Not recently, no," began America, who the Frenchman didn't interrupt, because he could hear the American thinking over the phone, "Oh no! Wait! I spoke to him yesterday."

"And? What did 'e say?"

"He was just checking that I was all set for tomorrow, ugh, I mean today," began America, clarifying (with great difficulty) his statement with an explanation, "He's meeting me here, Columbus, and we're flyin' down to California together."

"_Pourquoi_?*"

France is getting nervous, and hoping that maybe America can hear it down the other end so that he can start worrying as well. Britain may very well be going over there for some constructive, what France assumes is, military exercises, but that doesn't mean America is any less likely to be in harm's way. After all, the Briton is renowned for having an explosive temper when he eventually does let it go. Truth be told, Britain hides most of his anger behind a seemingly calm, bit incredibly snarky, exterior. Hence Britain's aggressive-sounding phone call alerting France to America's potential security risk.

"He's got a few pilots over here training to use the jets I'm selling him*, why do you sound so worried? Is he okay?"

France felt a brief, but bitter, wave of irritation. Britain was always buying jets off the American (at least when he wasn't making his own, which was a frequently rarer occurrence). France had repeatedly pointed out that some of the European jets were vastly superior* and much better suited to purpose than the American ones, but no, despite France's attempts at persuasion, which were certainly _not _veiled seduction attempts, the Brit's idiot Boss had gone along with an American contract anyway. Despite Britain disliking France, it did seem at times as though Britain was taking his points into consideration – a rare change that only proved to show just how unpopular this Cameron bloke was becoming.

"It iz not 'eem zat I am worried about," stated France, "Are you not picking 'eem up from ze _aéroport*_?"

"No, he said he was gonna make his own way over to my house," replied the American, whose voice was beginning to sound increasingly concerned, "You're really beginning to freak me out here, France, what's going on?"

"I got a phone call off one of 'ees brozers, zey zink zat 'e might-"

_Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep!_

The incessant beeping continued and there was a pause from both ends of the line as both speakers tried to locate the source. France pulled his mobile away from his head, looking around sharply and keenly in case he could locate the source with his eyes. He noticed that the beeping stopped almost immediately as he pulled the phone away from his ear. Whatever the sound was – though it sounded suspiciously like a very irritating and generic alarm clock wailing away – it was coming from America's side, and not France's. Placing the mobile back to his ear again, France was greeted by some words he wasn't sure he was entirely happy to hear.

"France?"

_Beep beep! Beep beep!_

"_Oui_?"

"I don't suppose your alarm clock's going off, is it?"

_Beep beep! Beep beep!_

"_Non, _I zink it iz yours, _Amérique_."

"But my alarm isn't set to go off until seven."

_Beep beep! Beep beep!_

"Ah, and it iz 'alf two."

"Damn," cursed America under his breath, audibly discomforted by the intrusion, "There's someone in my bedroom."

_Eastern Daylight Saving Time_

_02:35 am_

_Beep beep! Beep beep!_

This couldn't be good. It didn't really matter who it was in there, the problem was that they were trying to lure him in there with the _really _annoying alarm clock. If anyone was trying to lure him in anywhere, it was a trap, and if it was a trap, then they probably know who he is, and if they know who he is, they're either a nation, which could be quite dangerous, or someone who found out off a nation, which could make them even more dangerous. He decided to keep France on the line, because, should anything happen – not that it would, he is a hero after all, and heroes don't get beaten up all that often – France could get help. He also decided to retrieve his gun, which, very conveniently sat in one of the drawers of the cabinet upon which the landline was located. There was a gun in his room as well, but that wasn't of much use to him.

"_Amérique! _You're not zinking of going in zere are you?"

"I've gotta," stated America simply, "You have _no idea _how annoying that alarm is."

_Beep beep! Beep beep!_

Somehow, annoying felt like an understatement. This simply confirmed America's suspicions. Whoever was in there must mean him harm, because no burglar would bother putting up with a sound that irritating for as long as that. America silently crept towards the room, which, he realised, was probably pointless because whoever was in there would have heard him talking on the phone outside. America took the safety off his gun, doing his best to make the distinctive click audible to whoever might be lying in wait. He mentally ran over the scenario in his head. Check behind the door, check in the wardrobe, check in the ensuite, keep to non-lethal shots etc. All the while, he had France frantically garbling things to him in increasingly French sounding English. America had stopped listening though, focusing on his breathing and heartbeat and the sounds in the other room, of which he could hear none.

This was only the twentieth time he'd had his home invaded and ten of those had been burglars who he'd seen off with the same ease one would lift their finger. A few had been conspiracy theorists, a few had been other nations looking to dig up some dirt, and a couple of investigative journalists, but most of them were his government. Be they CIA, FBI, heads of state (that had threw him a little bit the first time), there was usually one every few decades that got a little _too _curious about the bizarre, hyperactive adult that hung around the president all the time. None of his home invaders had ever been real, genuine threats, even the nations had backed down and left once he'd pointed a gun at them, but America wasn't about to make a stupid mistake by assuming the intruder was harmless.

_Beep beep! Beep beep!_

He pushed the door open slowly, scanning the room quickly and sharply. He shut the door behind him, peering behind its frame and slightly reassured when no one jumped out at him. Scouring the ceiling with hawk-eyes, he turned his attention to the wardrobe, which he opened silently, despite its incessant squeaking. Patting the back of the wardrobe, making sure there was nowhere within its confines someone could hide, he turned around. As he knelt down to look under the bed, all he could hear was France's and his own barely-there breaths and the alarm clock whose screeching continued unabated. There was nothing under the bed, nothing in the wardrobe, nothing behind the door, nothing on the ceiling, so whoever was in there _must _have hidden in the ensuite.

"_Amérique_," breathed France quietly, a hint of uncharacteristic concern slipping into his voice, "Be careful."

America gently pushed open the door to his ensuite and he looked immediately into the mirror in front of him which he knew would show the spot behind the door. There was nothing there. Frowning slightly, because there were very few places remaining that could hide a fully grown man or woman, America walked forward. He peered into the shower, whose glass was clear and revealed no hidden menace. America even checked there was nothing in the shower by poking around it with his hands, finding absolutely nothing. He looked into the bath tub and found nothing, and he was quite sure that no human, or nation, could possibly fit in the waste paper basket, which was additionally, by design, transparent.

_Beep beep! Beep beep!_

"France, I'm confused," explained America in a hushed whisper, "I can't find anyone."

"Iz it possible you set your alarm wrong?"

_Beep beep! Beep beep!_

"Maybe."

Though, America found that hard to believe. He hadn't changed the alarm time on his clock in over forty years, what were the chances he'd changed it and then forgotten about it? Unwilling to write it off as a simple coincidence, America raised his gun to eye level and walked back into the bedroom, being greeted by, once again, nothing. There were no moving shadows, no signs of breathing, nothing that could possibly indicate a foreign presence in the room. Either his assailant was really, really good, or there was actually no one in the room. Not willing to give up on the possibility that the invader might be a nation, America paused, closing his eyes for a second or two, and enacted the marvellous self-analysis capable of all nations. Opening his eyes, he realised that he had detected one foreign nation's presence. He couldn't pin point it, but the sensation was irrevocably there, niggling away. It was almost remarkable that he hadn't noticed it before.

_Beep beep! Beep-_

America froze. The alarm had stopped. He span around instantaneously. Raising his gun to what would be his assailant's head, were said assailant of average male height. He was greeted by nothing save his alarm clock's silence. Then, a shiver of deathly cold swept down his spine. The familiar sensation of a gun pressed to his neck. He didn't move. He wasn't quite that stupid, despite what many nations would protest. He didn't speak either. He was waiting for his victorious attacker to say something, give him a command, tell him to beg for his life, gloat, anything really. What he wasn't expecting was for his attacker's hand to reach around, point to the gun in America's own, and then to the floor. Following the invisible command, America remarked with interest that the invader clearly didn't want to speak. Why? Probably because America would recognise his voice, so it was probably someone America knew.

"_Amérique? Qu'est-ce qu'il se passe ?*" _

America could feel the gun swapping hands, but so swift was the movement that he couldn't react fast enough to use the weakness to his advantage. He watched with interest as the other hand reached around and pointed to the phone, before making a series of gestures that indicated that the attacker wanted him to hang up. Why could that be? Obviously, if the attacker meant him harm, he wouldn't want him having a way of getting help, but it could also mean something else. What if France could recognise his voice as well? Maybe that's why he wanted America to hang up. If France and America knew him, the chances were suddenly astronomically high that he was a nation. America reassured France briefly, knowing that if it was a nation, he could handle it, before hanging up and dropping his phone to the floor.

"I know you're a nation," stated America simply, tempted, but not stupid enough, to turn his head to try and peak at the intruder, "What do you want?"

"You leaked intelligence information."

That voice…

"What do you mean?"

Play for time and work out who it is.

"Your government leaked intelligence information. You broke the first rule of intelligence. You did not protect the sanctity of the source*. Do you have any idea how serious this is?"

Wait… intelligence leak…

"Britain!"

"Yes it's me," hissed the Brit, clearly very, very irritated, "You leaked information about your source, _my _agent*. Do you have any idea how serious this is?"

"Yes, of course I do," growled America, disliking the idea that he might not know what was wrong, "I'm not stupid."

"You could have fooled me, how was the information leaked?"

"Why? You're not gonna try and go after them are you?"

"It depends on your answer."

"Look, there were too many people and departments on the need-to-know list*, we're not sure who leaked the information, but we'll learn from the mistake and it won't happen again."

"The damage has already been done, you moron!"

"What do you mean?"

Sighing, Britain removed the gun from the back of America's head, throwing it onto the bed with a neat thunk and complete disregard for the health and safety laws for which he was becoming quite well renowned. America immediately turned around to grab Britain by the wrist and question him, but, to his surprise, he found that Britain was already sitting on the bed, kneading his forehead like he had materialised a migraine in the past five seconds. America frowned, watching Britain warily as he picked up his gun and phone. His phone was in his dressing gown pocket, his gun was in his hand, at his side, safety still off. America looked over to the gun Britain had used, only to realise that it was his own gun, and that its safety was engaged. At least that explained how Britain had managed to get a gun, what with his gun laws and America's border security.

"Look, I didn't mean to put you on edge," apologised Britain in his subtle non-apology sort of way, "So you can put that gun away. I'm furious with you, don't get me wrong, but I'm not going to hurt you, or your stupid leaking government."

"I'll forgive you this time," conceded America, "But only because I had no idea you were this kick-ass. I honestly thought both rooms were totally clear."

"Yes well, that's all good and well," stated Britain, ignoring the praise awkwardly as though it was the elephant in the room, "But it doesn't reverse the damage _your _government has inflicted on _our _operations."

"We're pretty pissed about it too, you know," said America, keen to make it known that his government was pretty angry about the whole thing as well, "We know what this could do to our relationships with other intelligence agencies."

"Like mine?"

America shut his mouth at that. Maybe it was the accusation in Britain's flaring green eyes, or maybe it was the burning guilt he felt at the fact he might have endangered one of Britain's men. America and Britain's intelligence agencies were close, nowhere near as close as their armed services*, and not even half as agreeable*, but they were probably closer than most. They'd gotten closer recently as well, because neither MI6 nor the CIA could ignore the danger of a British Muslim turned extremist attacking the US. The gravity of an attack like that would rest heavy in the minds and hearts of Americans, and it would damage the special relationship, possibly beyond repair. As such, the two intelligence services were working closer than before in order to stop just such a threat. Hence any sort of leak at the expense of the other being something to be taken incredibly seriously.

"I don't even understand how it was leaked!"

"I think maybe someone wanted to make a point that the government was protecting our national security," suggested America, almost timidly, "They mighta wanted to reveal information to show the government's been doing stuff."

Britain scoffed, as though completely disbelieving the very suggestion that anyone would be stupid enough to do something like that for something as petty as that. Britain looked back up to America (who was still standing) with a falling smile as he began to realise that his friend wasn't joking. Britain's face changed into an expression an incredibly unique and complex one that depicted a sense of disbelief that was having such a hard time believing what it was faced with, that it had started being amused. Thinking on it for half a minute or so, Britain concluded that America's government's openness must be a reaction to America's youth as a nation and an embedded distrust in the intelligence services (presumably not aided by Nixon's little charade nearly forty years ago*).

"MI6 never reveals information about its operations."

"Never?" pushed America.

"Well, eventually*," Britain stated, "But this is beside the point, look, it's dangerous enough as it is for our agents without your government announcing to every man and his dog that they even exist! There'll be a bloody witch hunt now and if MI6 loses a single agent, then you will lose our trust."

"I know."

"Good."

"I know it is."

"Good."

An awkward silence ensued. What the hell wasn't awkward about someone invading your home, only for you to find out that it's actually one of your closest friends who just wants to show you – in a ridiculously convoluted way – that their intelligence services are better than yours and that you've really pissed them off? Quite why America was letting Britain get away with his ridiculously elaborate way of voicing his grievances would have been a mystery, were it not for the fact that the two were very close friends with very high levels of respect for each other (despite their constant mocking). Were they not close, arguably best, friends, their relationship would have taken a nose-dive ages ago. So, with all forgiven, but certainly not forgotten (nations and intelligence agencies are scarily efficient when it comes to bearing grudges), there remained but two rather important and stark questions, both of which were posed by America.

"So, um," began America, "Why are you here so early, and why are you wearing a tuxedo*?"

_So yes, this little bit of news was too much fun to pass up. It's not quite pirate Britain, but it's just a small glimpse of secret agent Britain, both of whom will be making reappearances, because they're far too much fun for me to ignore them._

_*at least fifty-one houses: to my mind, he would have a house in every state and territory, and if you're including territories (and DC) the number is above 50_

_*Eurozone: not to be confused with the European Union, the Eurozone is the collective name for the countries whose currency is the Euro_

_*d'accord: (French) right/okay?_

_*pourquoi?: (French) why?_

_*few pilots over here training to use the jets: 9 Royal Navy pilots are learning to fly US fighter jets in California, because Britain is buying American jump jets for use on a new British aircraft carrier (which is still being made, I believe)_

_*European jets were vastly superior: a Commons Committee did find that the Euro fighter jets would be cheaper and more suited to purpose for the aircraft carrier, but the prime minister pointedly ignored their report it would seem_

_*aéroport: (French) airport_

_*qu'est-ce qu'il se passe?: (French) what's happening?_

_*sanctity of the source: according to someone interviewed in the Times, this is the most basic rule of intelligence-gathering_

_*your source, my agent: the latest reports indicate that the agent was a British agent, possibly turned, that reported the threat to the CIA and gave them the weapon_

_*too many people and departments on the need-to-know list: a few listed were the State Department, Pentagon, CIA, and FBI_

_*as close as their armed services: compared to most countries, Britain and America do work incredibly closely with each other, for example, one of the Royal Navy pilots training in the US has worked operations with the US in Afghanistan_

_*half as agreeable: from what TV programmes teach us, which is admittedly very little, MI6 and the CIA do have some issues with each other_

_*Nixon's little charade nearly forty years ago: referring, of course, to Watergate in 1972_

_*well, eventually: MI6 said pointedly in the Times that it doesn't reveal operations, but I think they release it eventually, I think _

_*tuxedo: James Bond, enough said_


	23. 15th July 1887

**Thanks very much to **N**, **DragonProtector09**, **Tazzilicious**, **LilyRoseTheDreamer **and **Call Me Tom **for reviews. I think I replied to them. I can't remember, but they're appreciated as always.**

**N: I have to say that I find every accent hard to write, Irish and Scottish in particular (they must look ridiculous), and I don't see my uncle from Waterford much, so beyond a couple of particularly Irish things e.g. 'th' as 't' or 'd', 'you' as 'ye', 'your' as 'yer' etc, I really struggle. If you can give me pointers, it'd be very useful.**

**On a general note, ****the next chapter will be the London 2012 Olympic Opening Ceremony****. I was abroad when it was on, so I couldn't write it and publish it when I wanted to. It might take a few days, but it will be up by the end of the month at the very least. **

_How Britain's brothers may have reacted to Victorian England's new hobby._

_Anything with a * marked after it has a note providing translation or further details at the end._

**The Ambulance Associations**

**15****th**** July 1887 **

_01:29pm_

"What _on Earth _are you wearing?"

England scowled. Frankly, he didn't know what had brought his brothers to his house, but he did know that they couldn't have possibly picked a time any less convenient than this one. They had, unfortunately, every right to be there, but England couldn't really understand why any of them would want to be, given that he wasn't exactly their favourite nation at the best of times. They found him quite insufferable, but that, as England pointed out, was largely due to the era in which they were in, dominated by sensibilities and propriety* and all the things his brothers had taken to, if very clearly unwillingly, not that England himself was madly keen on it*.

"You could have let me know you were coming," began England with an exasperated sigh, "Being as I know you have paid off all the staff*, so they do not tell me these things themselves."

"Ah dornt see hoo it woods hae made a difference," stated Scotland, leaning back in the grandiose armchair which he usurped off England at every possible opportunity, sometimes even doing so when the task of stealing the comfiest chair in England's house was an impossibility, "An' ye huvnae answered th' question."

England bristled, though just barely noticeably. This was perhaps one of the most irritating things about England at the time. He was becoming more and more difficult to read, as more and more of his behaviour became 'uncouth' or 'rude'. It came as quite the shock (to almost every nation in the world) when England suddenly ceased swearing. There were, of course, the odd moments where he would break out into a rant of profanities so profane as to be deadly to human hearing, but these were far and few between. So far as the world was concerned, this was a vast improvement. So far as England's siblings were concerned, England had become an incorrigible uptight bastard (not that he wasn't before, the condition had simply become more pronounced). There were several factors that had led to the creation of an uptight England, just two of which being the almost schizophrenic propriety of the upper classes* and the increasing prevalence of the upper classes thanks to the _nouveau riche*_.

"It is rude to impose on people by inviting yourself into their home without their approval," stated England in a way that was toneless to an untrained ear, but grumbling with discomfort to the carefully tuned ears of his siblings, "You _should_ have sent a message ahead."

"It is rude not to respond to questions."

'I hate you' was the message directed at Wales in England's quarter-glare, quarter-glare, because a half-glare would be too noticeable, and therefore rude, uncouth and capable of sullying his reputation. England hated this. So much. He felt two-faced all the time. Half of him wanted to break every rule going, and quite often did when it thought no one was looking, and the other half of him desperately slaved itself to following every single rule imposed on it. On the few occasions England had time to wonder about anything, he wondered if his brothers were having as much difficulty, as much inner turmoil. He often wondered if his colonies struggled in the same way, but they usually seemed impolitely happy at the fact that they could often run circles around England due to his impossibly controlling social rules.

"Why is what I am wearing of any importance to you?" asked England, carefully placing his bag, a leather satchel with a very particular white cross embroidered onto the front, on the floor so that his anger would not be displayed – his grip on the satchel's strap was beginning to break the seams.

"Jist answer de question," stated Ireland, leaning against England's _favourite _bookcase of _very old _books, "If 'tis somethin' you're ashamed av, we'll find out later anyway."

Whilst Ireland had a point, and in an incredibly valid point at that, England felt very much inclined to just leave the house in order to avoid answering the question at all. The fact that he was barely withholding a rant on the priceless value of his books had absolutely nothing to do with his growing desire to leave the house and return after a year's trip to any colony that was not near Europe (thankfully, most of them). Thinking that this was indeed his next course of action, England bent over to pick up his leather satchel only to find that it had moved. It had moved and was now sitting in Ulster's lap. England frowned ever so slightly, disappointed that his plans of escape had been scuppered once again.

"Oi, Ireland, wot's dis?" asked Ulster, pointing innocently to the very peculiar white cross on the front. Whether Ulster, the bizarre unexplained physical manifestation of the most northern area of Ireland, had either forgotten the very old symbol, or just genuinely had no clue as to what it was, was not made clear by his tone.

The reaction of England's other siblings, however, could have been made no clearer. Their eyes, initially laced with a dark mist of confusion, suddenly brightened. They remembered where they had seen the cross before, on whom they had seen the cross before. It was an ancient cross, though they could not recall if it was a cross awarded or discovered or created, all they could really recall (as their populations knew very little of the period in question, and as they themselves had long since dissociated themselves from the events of that period, remembering only when trying to) was that it belonged to a very particular group of knights. The Knights Hospitallers in fact, who were formed in the same year as the Knights Templar, and both of which took part in the Crusades. Though the Order of Hospitallers gained recognition in the Kingdom of England very quickly, it vanished just as quickly after the dissolution of the Catholic Church in England and Wales.

Their heads snapped towards England faster – England was sure – than bullets could move. They remembered, almost withholding shudders, the moment when England left the Isles, assured by his idiotic absent King that if the Nation took part in the Crusades, he could save _all _of his citizens. It was a dirty trick for anyone to play, particularly given that England was still young, in his human appearance anyway, and naïve to ideas of salvation. With the Heptarchy* and near-constant invasions* dogging his earlier years, England practically leapt onto the idea of Christianity, the idea of being saved and protected for eternity. When England returned just three years later, by order of the King, none of his siblings ever bothered to ask why, but now they were beginning to worry. Why was this symbol resurfacing now? What relation did this symbol have to England's never-before-seen uniform? Was there some relation to the Crusades in all this?

England was aware of the sharp, gazing eyes of his brothers on him. He knew that, by know, they'd made the connection between that cross and the Crusades, and he could only guess what they were thinking. Perhaps they imagined that he was about to go charging off to the Holy Land for another go, or, perhaps they imagined that he had gone completely insane, recalling only the most distant events in his history. England was quite sure they were just waiting for an opportunity to get him committed, particularly since both France and America had failed to do so. England sighed slightly, though not enough to be noticeable to anyone besides his siblings, before finding himself the only spare chair in the room – a wonderfully comfy armchair – and perching himself on it, making very sure not to slouch, as that would have been uncouth.

"What do you want to know, then?" asked England, all too politely for the nerves tearing away at his insides – terrified that his siblings were on the brink of aggression – and the mild anger felt at their unannounced presence in his home, "Your curiosity burns as bright as that in the small white feline next door."

"Everything." stated Scotland simply, not content to be compared to a small white cat.

"We want ter nu why you're wearin' dat uniform," began Ireland, in no uncertain terms, with a face largely indicating that lies would not be particularly appreciated, (and did England detect a glaring hatred within those usually bright orbs?), "Why you're wearin' dat cross an' waat you've been up ter."

"I suppose you have a right to know," sighed England with a weak, defeated smile, "You may be intrigued by it."

Just as England was about to open his mouth, to respond to his brothers queries, there was a ferocious flurry of knocking and cries at the front door. The British Isles nations all turned towards the door, with a mixture of irritation and intrigue etched into their faces. The shouting was loud, clearly panicked, and slightly fearful, and altogether a sound none of them appreciated very much. Meanwhile, throughout the shouting, the door was shaking in its frame from the powerful blows being thrown upon it from the outside. The door may have been made by Victorian engineers, but it was still made of wood, and still very prone to damage by desperate hands. The brothers watched in fascination as one of England's household staff walked towards the door and, with a nod from England, opened it.

The door had only been opened marginally but the panic of the person outside had thrown it wider. Now leaping through the threshold rather like a man running for their life, they pushed England's servant brusquely to the side, and into the coat stand. England, in response to the unpleasant treatment of his staff, leapt to his feet, along with his siblings, who did so more out of surprise and curiosity than any sense of being wronged. Unlike the curious expressions of his brothers, England's own face showed the vague notions of fear intermingling with a defensive aggression for which he had been known for centuries, and which lingered still, despite his almost undefeatable power as an Empire. After all, it would be foolish to argue that some of the British Empire's imperial advances had not been made in order to protect the interests of existing colonies and protectorates.

"Can I help you, Sir?" almost-hissed England, bristling like a cat.

The man, roughly middle class (judging by his obviously rugged attempts at trying to look upper class), was clearly very distressed. His healthy mop of jet black hair was scalped to his head by a sweeping hand and was held there by a sheen of very noticeable sweat. His green eyes were wide with fear and panic and there was nothing in there to suggest that he was anything but worried. (England's brothers noted with interest the way that England's expression immediately softened at this observation, something they found to be uncharacteristic). Beads of sweat were trailing down the man's healthily puffed cheeks, and the cause of this profuse exertion was obviously the dimensions of the man's stomach, which rolled over the top of his belt-line. The businessman, as England and his brothers had deduced he must have been, had clearly run to reach the house, and his panic indicated that something, somewhere must have gone wrong.

The man was not someone England knew well, but, had the man stated that his name was Mr Briars, England would have immediately recognised him as the very same who had commissioned him to do very special training for the workers of a nearby mine. England had moved out of London for a bit at the behest of Queen Victoria – who he was loathed to disobey – due to a developing dry cough which sounded altogether too unhealthy. Why England had then moved to a mining town was a point of debatable logic, but at least the smog there was somewhat less thick than in London, Birmingham and the Black Country (the latter of which had taken its name from the very thick smog that coated it in almost perpetuity).

"Accident…" was the only comprehensible word between the loud and almost visible (certainly smell-able) panting, "Mine."

The reaction was instantaneous, and it was not one anyone was really expecting. England's face sharpened immediately, taking on a silently determined face, the sort that had always made England and his siblings dangerous. England took the mysterious bag away from Ulster with a speed and grace that stunned the younger 'nation' so much that he was unable to actually act or tighten his grip on the bag in question. Despite England's uniform looking all too military for his brothers' liking (hence them trying to force an answer out of him), and despite the determined expression on his face (which was usually synonymous with battles), the British Isles siblings did nothing to stop him. Perhaps it was the softened, worried, concerned edge in those glistening green orbs, maybe it was the way he softly, gently reassured the man, or possibly, it was the sheer rarity of this behaviour.

"If you want to know what I have been doing behind your backs," stated England simply from the doorway, which he had walked to incredibly quickly for someone not running, "You may follow me and judge for yourselves what you find."

What nation would have stayed behind?

_01:49pm_

"How many?" England asked.

England's brothers trailed behind him, unaffected by their surroundings, but startled by their brother's behaviour. England was charging straight into the mine, demanding bits of information at every opportunity, but doing so in a tone that was rare at best. It was a demanding tone, one that sought immediate answers, but there was nothing in it that suggested punishment or dire consequences should the demand not be met. To a degree, it felt more like England was requesting things. The _sound _of England's voice, however, was something they were familiar with. It would have, to all the world, sounded calm and cold and calculating, but there was an underlining trickle of concern and worry, and a very particular sort of concern at that. It was a motherly concern, or something similar, and it was something England seemed to express a lot more often than other countries would ever have given him credit for. It was a selective concern, but when it was there, it burned ever so brightly.

"Two or three still down there, not sure how they are," replied the short, but incredibly well-built miner, "The others are up top, safe for now. Doctor's on his way."

"Which doctor?"

"Jamieson."

The charging walk stopped immediately. England's brothers slammed their brakes on. It was only Ulster's ghost-like nature that prevented them all falling like dominoes. They were all pretty chuffed with themselves for not falling face first into the mine's floor, for the simple reason that they were descending , at the time, a hill of sorts which was incredibly steep, for its location in any case. They all huddled forward, in an attempt to see England's face, for it would inevitably explain why they had all stopped abruptly. A look of horror was what they found and, sadly, it explained very little. Why would he be horrified by a doctor? They all scoured their brains and could come up with no feasible explanation for the expression of horror-near-disgust. So far as they were aware, England had no underlying fear of doctors, well not most of them in any case, and certainly not the sort that were usually called up to these sort of events.

"I think it would be best for you to intervene and call Doctor McKinness."

"May I ask why, sir?"

"Jamieson is incompetent." stated England simply, as if announcing a well-known fact to an idiot, before continuing to walk deeper into the mine at a pace that would be considered inhuman to the miners jogging past to their left and right had they the time to stop and care.

All of the British Isles brothers were familiar with mines. Each of them had mines of their own, and they had all seen their fair share of accidents and disasters. Mines weren't exactly known for their safety records, and policies to help reduce the scathing scars on the records were few and far between, so to see England charging into a mine, talking about doctors with a mysterious bag, was something that rather grabbed all of their interests. Recognition was slowly beginning to click in Scotland's mind, but he was still slightly confused, the revelation having not quite hit him yet. Wales couldn't help but feel that something was going on and that he should be involved in it. (For all the hatred Wales and Scotland fired at England, most of it these days was in jest).

They seemed to plunge further and further into darkness as they walked into the heart of the mine. They had pestered England at one point for their exact location. England had paused and they could all _hear _the saddened disappointment when he announced that he didn't know. There were many burdens to being an Empire, and although most of these burdens were shared between the Isles, it would be a lie to say that a fair amount of it didn't land on England. Feeling a Kingdom of four countries was one thing, feeling an Empire of a large percentage of the _world _was another thing entirely. The five brothers would have been lying if they had ever tried to admit that they had not suffered burdens for their gains.

Suddenly, pained groans began to rumble and echo off the darkened walls, lit only and occasionally by tiny flames hidden within metallic frames. England broke out into a jog and Scotland's revelation finally hit like a ton of bricks. England was a first aider. He was providing emergency care to those in need, to those often in mines. As Scotland realised this, the contents of the bag became less mysterious, the uniform less concerning, the concerned, gentle nature more explicable. Scotland smiled almost softly as he and his brothers set off at a jog towards the moans and groans. Scotland smiled softly because he'd always known England was soft deep down, and in all fairness, England had never really done a very good job at hiding it.

When they arrived on scene, they all remarked quite quickly that there was quite a lot of blood. Given the amount of blood all of them had seen on battlefields, it was in actuality quite mild, but given that only three men were involved and that it was in a mine, there was a surprising amount of blood to behold. There was already one bloke, wearing a uniform identical to England's, on scene and reassuring the three groaning men. England walked over, questioning the man in question, while his eyes scanned over each of the men. There was something almost cold in those deeply analytical eyes, something that all of England's brothers were familiar with, and it was something they all did instinctively, regardless of how callous humans would see it. It was the cold eyes that judged whether it was worthwhile to give the injured help.

"Banged heads is all, really," explained the kneeling first aider, who was retrieving a rolled up white bandage from his satchel as England asked for an update, "Oscar over there cut his palm when he fell. Nothing serious, though."

"Good," replied England with a faintly relieved smile, even if there was a sadness hidden there, "Let me have a look at you then, Mr…?"

"Bradley, Sir," grunted the pale, brown-eyed man in question, "James Archibald David Bradley."

"I cannot very well address you as James Archibald David Bradley every time I speak to you now can I?" asked England with a soft smile, "How should I address you?"

"Jim, sir."

Mixed spikes of emotion was what drew attention away from the scene ahead of them. Ireland, and Ulster, were bristling with such a powerful mix of emotions, that they were entirely impossible to decipher. Scotland and Wales, though the latter to a lesser extent, were proud of their little brother, England, who had decided to join the ranks of his people: the ranks of a small number of people who had seen the accidents in mines and on the railways and who had decided to do something to help. Therefore, to Wales and Scotland, the lack of pride emanating from their two Irish siblings was something of interest, if not concern. Their answer came quite swiftly from Ireland's murmurings as they turned their heads to question their siblings.

"He 'elps _dem_."

The Great Famine*. Of course. The anger still burned brightly.

_03:03pm_

To be fair to Ireland and Ulster, they waited for their moment to erupt; family was a private matter, after all.

"Do you have a name for this _group _then?"

"St John Ambulance Association*," replied England, nervously staring out of the window of the rickety taxi carriage to avoid the eye contact of his brothers, "I volunteer for a Brigade*, a St John Ambulance Brigade. It is a hobby… to relax. Her Majesty told me to find a way to occupy myself and they were there," he looked to his brothers, finding hidden anger and blank expressions and hastily looked away, adding, "I think it is good."

A long pause ensued. There was an awkward, silent tension in the small carriage, worsened by the presence of his usually loud siblings. (England could normally stand awkward silences very well, but with his brothers, who rarely kept quiet, these silences felt almost unbearable at times). The jaunting to and fro of the carriage launched them all from side to side, into each other. The closeness made the silence even harsher, and it was so harsh and obvious that even the driver was uncomfortable. The clacking clip-clop of the ginger mare's hooves on the cobbled road bounced off the walls of the surrounding terraced houses, exacerbating the absence of sound within the carriage. England interlocked his fingers. It was an old nervous habit.

"St Andrew's Ambulance Association*."

England looked at Scotland, mouth agape, as though about to say something, before Scotland interrupted him to add a year.

"1882."

England beamed. Briefly.

"Ye 'elped _dem_."

There was a coldness to Ireland's words that made England feel ever so uncomfortable. Recognition slowly glistened in England's eyes and he suddenly remembered that he'd actually been expecting this for quite a while. He was surprised Ireland had held his tongue so long. Every time they had met previously, Ireland had not hesitated to tear into him. Perhaps, England had thought, Ireland had moved on or forgiven him. England could not have been more wrong. Ireland had not moved on, and his populous would not forgive England. The British Isles nations were well known for their ability to retain grudges for centuries, though England was widely recognised as having the most selective memory, so the Famine was not likely to be forgotten, let alone forgiven.

"I-I," it was rare for England to stutter, "I-"

"Is it 'cos they're English?" stated Ireland, voice cold and silently angry, "Is dat why ye 'elped _dem_?"

"I-I," England looked frantically to Wales and Scotland for support, made more frantic by their unwillingness to give said support, "That was different. It was the government and the Whigs* were in charge and it was a natural catastrophe and-"

"De work av God," added Ireland, as cold as a Russian winter as the words rolled off his lips, "Trevalyn*."

"He, he, it was not, I could not," England was letting his mask slide, letting his panic and hurt and worry show, "There is nothing I could have-"

"Jist try an' finish dat sentence."

"Ireland, _please_, there is nothing I could have done to stop them."

"Ye didn't need tae stop dem. Ye needed tae make dem do somethin'*," growled Ireland, his anger now more prevalent, though still bubbling beneath an otherwise cool exterior, "Yer jist anti-Irish*. Alwus 'ave been."

"No I'm not!" cried England, eyes showing hurt on the surface, but indignation further down, "You are my _brother_!"

Ireland slammed his fist against the ceiling, telling the driver what he wanted. The driver did nothing to acknowledge the request, but the carriage pulled up in front of a house, whose roof was quickly becoming overshadowed by a thick black cloud. The horse gradually drew to a stop, whinnying in indignation when it did, and impatiently tapping the hoof of one of its hind legs against the cobbled road. England's face was an expression of hurt, sadness and hidden disgust as the Irishman whispered to Ulster to open the carriage's door. Scotland and Wales remained silent, due lack of knowledge as to what to do rather than due to vindictive and hurtful intentions.

"Yer a _nation_, England," growled Ireland, audibly hurt as he climbed out of the carriage's door, followed by Ulster, "_Brudders_ 'elp each other."

"Ireland, I, you, this is the _fifteenth _time we've had this argument! There is nothing more I could have-"

"Drive on!" shouted Ireland.

Ireland slammed the carriage door shut as England moved as though to jump out from the carriage to pursue the argument further. The carriage lurched forward as the horse moved, throwing England into Ireland's empty seat. England frantically moved towards the door. He tried to lean over the side, to see Ireland, to shout more excuses and reassurances, to confess that he'd done worse in other nations, to other nations, that he'd done worse to him in the past, but none of his pleads would have meant or done anything. Even if England could have mustered up the strength and courage to apologise, it was doubtful at this stage that Ireland would have even believed him. England could shout nothing of the sort as he was dragged back into his seat by a Scotland concerned by his brother's potentially reckless behaviour.

A long silence ensued.

"What could I have done?" asks, _implores_ England quietly, "He's my brother, but my people, I am what they are, I think what they think, feel what they feel: I only _care _and truly feel guilty because a small proportion of my people does. I cannot fight them, when I _am _them! What could I have done, Scotland? Wales? "

A silence and a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.

"We ken, lad, we ken."

_This was really just a story to talk about the origins of St John Ambulance and St Andrew's First Aid who do absolutely marvellous jobs saving lives and teaching first aid every single day and never really get much thanks for it, but it was also handy for introducing Victorian England and the idea of the Irish Potato Famine, which I hope (at some point) to cover the Irish Potato Famine after I've done enough research to not insult the memory of it._

_*all the staff: an upper-class Victorian household would not have been seen without servants, who weren't always paid that well_

_*schizophrenic propriety of the upper classes: it was rude (in this class) to say words like 'leg' and 'ankle', but this is the same class that is recorded as visiting prostitutes and opium houses_

_*nouveau riche: the name given to members of the working or middle classes who gained money due to the Industrial Revolution and married or bought their way into the upper classes_

_*Heptarchy: the name given to the period in which England was composed of many different Kingdoms e.g. Mercia, Sussex, Wessex _

_*near-constant invasions: mostly caused by the Vikings, but the Irish (and I'm not sure how accurate this information is) apparently attacked the South-West of England quite a lot_

_*The Great Famine: or the Irish Potato Famine, which through crop failure (caused by disease) and political inertia (among many other factors), about one million people in Ireland died of starvation or epidemic disease between 1846 and 1851_

_*St John Ambulance Association: formed in England in 1877, and now known simply as St John Ambulance (NOT St John's Ambulance), it is a volunteer-led, charitable organisation dedicated to the teaching and practice of first aid_

_*St John Ambulance Brigade: formed in England in June 1887, are akin to modern-day St John Ambulance Divisions, I believe_

_*St Andrew's Ambulance Association: formed in Scotland in 1882, are almost identical to St John Ambulance, the two organisations work together with the British Red Cross to make the UK's Official First Aid Manual_

_*the Whigs: the old name for the Tory Party, Conservatives essentially_

_*Trevalyn: a man, who, during the Famine, argued that it was an act of God, and suggested (if he didn't outright say it - I can't recall) that the Irish deserved it_

_*make dem do somethin': it was the government's inaction that exacerbated the Famine_

_*anti-Irish: there have been periods of anti-Irish sentiment in England, the most recent was during the Troubles_


	24. Delay to Olympic Open Ceremony Chapter

This is simply to say that the Olympic Opening Ceremony Chapter is taking much longer than I had previously imagined. 'By the end of the week', as it turns out, was a rather large underestimation. It is about 5,000 words and, at this stage, I haven't even got to the Industrial Revolution.

By the time it's finished, this chapter will be a beast of a thing. It will likely be more than 10,000 words, and certainly enough to sink your teeth into. My choices were either to put up a shortened version, which would likely be complete bollocks, or to spend longer on it, and do it justice.

I'm sorry to do this to you, but hopefully the end product will be recompense for the time it will take to write it.


End file.
